


nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy

by littlesnowpea



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eating Disorders, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Save Rock and Roll Tour, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 12:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18469192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: Andy knew something was wrong with Patrick, had known since Soul Punk, but it was the what he didn’t know. There was such a divide between the Patrick he knew before and the Patrick that existed now that it was jarring and hard to accept.





	1. andy

**Author's Note:**

> so. this is intensely personal to me. i actually started writing it as therapy homework. i debated for a very long time about posting it at all, but i thought maybe it might help someone. who know if it will or if that's wishful thinking, but. 
> 
> just because i want to be clear before you start reading: the rape is in the past. patrick got raped. this is from andy's point of view as they all find out about it. this is not a feel good fic.
> 
> i actually wrote way more than this but the writing quality severely diminished so this is what i am posting. please don't @ me i know this didn't happen. i hope to god nothing like this ever happens. it was just for me to emotionally work through my own trauma and stuff. 
> 
> please, if you even think there might be a little part of this that triggers you, pass go and collect $200 and don't read this. i love you all too much for you to get upset if this is upsetting. 
> 
> title from disloyal order but i'm sure you know that.

Andy knew something was wrong with Patrick, had known since Soul Punk, but it was the _what_ he didn’t know. There was such a divide between the Patrick he knew before and the Patrick that existed now that it was jarring and hard to accept. 

Especially because in a lot of ways, Patrick was the same. He was still almost painfully sweet to everyone he met, still charming and polite and able to make anyone do whatever he wanted with a soft smile. He was still seemingly oblivious to the girls that fell all over themselves trying to get his attention (though it irked Pete and Andy and Joe once they realized there were a lot more now that Patrick was thin.)

But Andy’s breath caught in his throat when the subtle differences came into play. Andy called them subtle because no one else, not even _Pete_ noticed them, but to Andy, they might as well be lit up by neon lights. Patrick clearly took pains to hide them, but Andy had gotten more observant since the hiatus and he caught on. 

The way Patrick would take several steps back from people if he could, even if it meant encroaching on one of his bandmates space. The oh-so-slight tremor he had in his hands when he was forced to talk to a man, forced to make eye contact with no room for escape. The way he refused to be boxed in, not by people and not by walls, a weird claustrophobia he’d never had before. 

Andy couldn’t put it together. He thought about asking Joe, but Joe wouldn’t want to do anything. Joe and Patrick were still hyperaware of how they spoke to one another, which was understandable. Their arguments alone might have been enough cause to never get together again. They had to relearn each other, and it would take time. This was their first big tour back together, after all, but Andy felt like with enough time, they’d grow back together. 

He thought about asking Pete, too, but Pete wouldn’t react well. Despite the years of growth, Pete’s approach to problems was still less tact and more wrecking ball, and it had never worked out before. 

It was seriously bothering Andy. There was something wrong, it was glaring, but he sometimes thought he was imagining things. How could nobody else notice it? Was Patrick _that_ good at hiding? Was Andy really _that_ good at watching?

He didn’t know how to ask, didn’t know if he should, really, at least until the biggest difference of all reared its head.

Andy watched Patrick pick at his food, a quiet body in the midst of Brendon and Pete’s obnoxious jokes and Joe’s relentless encouragement. Andy watched Patrick look up, look around, before sliding under the cover of the noise to the trash can, throwing his food away and walking away, towards his and Pete’s bus, so, so quiet. 

Andy felt his heart drop.

\----

Andy waited for far too long outside the door to the bus. Joe had hardly noticed him leave, pausing in throwing balled up pieces of napkin at Pete long enough to give him a soft kiss before launching right into whatever idiotic shit they were doing now. 

Which left Andy outside Patrick and Pete’s bus, the sounds of the rambunctious dinner just background noise now. Andy had no idea what he would do. Unlike any other time Andy approached a problem, he had no game plan, no mode of attack, no anything besides a desperate desire to shake Patrick and demand to know how starving himself helped anything. 

Patrick was on the couch, cross-legged, in the one corner that was so clearly his it was almost funny, if Andy was in a laughing mood. There was tea on the table in front of him, headphones over his ears, and his MacBook open on his lap. He wasn’t fucking around with music, though. It looked like he was watching a movie, fingers tracing over the headphone cord almost absently. 

Andy sat on the couch a few feet away and Patrick jumped violently, jerking his headphones off with a look so terrified Andy felt awful. All at once, though, he seemed to realize it was Andy and relaxed again, pausing his movie and shifting his laptop off his lap so he could face Andy. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, and Andy winced. 

“Sorry,” he said, and Patrick shook his head. 

“I was too into the movie I guess,” he laughed, but Andy could tell he was forcing it, making an excuse, _covering something up._ What was it?

“How the fuck do you stand Pete’s mess?” Andy asked, instead of launching into an immediate interrogation. Patrick glanced around the lounge with an almost fond look on his face. 

“Some things never change,” he said, before shrugging. “Spent too long pretending I wasn’t in love with him to let a shitty habit bother me. How do you stand Joe smoking up once a week?”

“I spent too long pretending I wasn’t in love with him,” Andy said, and Patrick huffed out a laugh, pushing his glasses back up his nose. 

“Are they still being idiots?” he asked. “You know, when we invited Brendon on tour, I thought being married would have mellowed him out.”

“You were incorrect,” Andy laughed. “If anything, he’s wilder.”

“That kid,” Patrick sighed. He fiddled with his headphones for a moment before looking up at Andy. “What did I do wrong?”

“What?” Andy asked, confused. 

“You have that look on your face,” Patrick said, gesturing needlessly. “The one you wear when I do something stupid or that you don’t like. So. What did I do wrong?”

Andy stared kind of helplessly at Patrick for a long moment. He had no idea what to say. How the fuck did he phrase it without sounding like a creepy stalker?

Patrick seemed to misinterpret Andy’s silence. 

“Did I say something wrong to Joe?” he asked, sounding a bit anxious. “If I did, I didn’t mean it, I really didn’t.”

“You didn’t,” Andy said quickly. “You did nothing wrong with Joe. Things are actually a lot better between you two. I’ve noticed.”

“Oh,” Patrick said. Andy took a deep breath.

“I’ve noticed other stuff,” he said vaguely. “But I don’t know how to talk to you about that. But I do have to talk to you about one thing I noticed just now.”

“Fuck,” Patrick said. 

“Is that how you lost the weight?” Andy asked. 

“No,” Patrick said, but Andy was pretty sure it was a lie.

“No?” Andy asked. “Do you know who you’re talking to? Because you have to know that I know damn well that losing sixty pounds in five months is nowhere near healthy weight loss, Patrick.”

“Six,” Patrick corrected. 

“Completely not the point,” Andy said. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“Breakfast,” Patrick said. “I’m not---it’s not like that anymore. Really. I stopped. I didn’t--I’m not not eating because of that.”

“Then why?” Andy asked. “It’s nine PM. You’re telling me you think it’s okay to not eat since six in the morning?”

“I’m not eating because everything tastes like garbage,” Patrick said quickly, before scrunching his face up and swiping at the dark circles under his eyes. Tour was getting to him. It was getting to all of them, always did at this point. 

“Like garbage?” Andy asked, confused. Patrick sighed. 

“Nothing tastes good,” he said. “Sometimes it tastes like cardboard. Sometimes it tastes completely disgusting. And when I do eat, I feel so sick I wish I hadn’t. So sometimes, I just can’t make myself do it.”

Andy frowned. 

“You get sick?” he asked. “Like, sick on your own?”

“I was never bulimic,” Patrick said. “Yes, sick on my own. Half the time I feel sick regardless.”

“Have you talked to a doctor?” Andy asked. 

“Yeah,” Patrick said. 

“And?”

“They’re not sure,” Patrick said evasively. “But I’m probably not going to die.”

Andy stared at him until Patrick sighed unhappily. 

“I do want to eat,” he said, and he sounded so sincere Andy had to believe him. “I’ll feel crazy hungry until I take a bite and then it’s just awful.”

“All food?” Andy asked. Patrick nodded. “I don’t buy the fact that they’re not sure.”

“Of course you don’t,” Patrick muttered. “I’m fine.”

“What did they say?” Andy asked. 

“ _No,”_ Patrick said, so abrupt and sharp it took Andy by surprise. “If it will make you happy, I will eat even though it sucks. But that is all you’re getting.”

“Okay, Patrick,” Andy said softly, and Patrick deflated. 

“Sorry,” he whispered. Andy gently laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“If you ever do want to talk,” Andy said. “You know I’m a vault.”

“I know,” Patrick said, and that was that.

\----

“Are you and Patrick fighting?” Joe said, voice uncertain in the darkness. The bus rumbled underneath them, and Andy sighed before turning to face him. They were on the sofa bed--it was _their bus,_ they didn’t need to try and squeeze into a bunk--and Andy tangled a hand in Joe’s hair.

“No,” he said. “Yes? I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Joe asked. “I’ve seen you fight with Patrick maybe five times ever. You’ve hardly spoken for the past three days. I’m getting really anxious.”

“It’s just,” Andy sighed. “It’s just that I approached him about something and I was not warmly received. So I think he’s avoiding me.”

“Oh,” Joe said carefully. “Was it--was it about him throwing away his dinner the other night?”

“I didn’t think you noticed that,” Andy said quietly. 

“Everyone did,” Joe said. “When you left we all assumed you were going to handle it.”

Andy sighed. 

“I attempted to,” he said. “I did. I did get him to admit that that was how he lost weight, but he insisted he’s not doing it now. He said eating makes him feel sick but refused to elaborate.”

“So, a lie,” Joe said, and Andy shook his head. 

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m afraid that the truth is worse.”

“What truth?” Joe asked. There was a worried, anxious tone to his voice. “What could be worse than Patrick starving himself?”

“Patrick didn’t do it because of you, Joe,” Andy said, and Joe let out a harsh breath. “I know it’s hard to believe, but he didn’t. And he would tell you that.”

“Even after the shit I said to him?” Joe asked. “All that fucked up--”

“Mistakes,” Andy said firmly. “Mistakes that are in the past. Patrick did it for many reasons but I doubt you were even kind of one of them.”

Andy listened to Joe take deep, calming breaths, the kind Andy taught him how to do when he was anxious or stressed, and after a moment, he pressed his forehead to Andy’s. 

“You said worse,” he said. “What’s worse?”

“I don’t know,” Andy said regretfully. “I’ve been trying to figure it out. There’s something--something off. And it isn’t obvious, but he knows it’s there. He’s trying to hide it.”

“List it out,” Joe said, because he knew lists soothed Andy. 

“There are times he seems...afraid?” Andy said. “He doesn’t like being alone. That’s new. He seeks out one of us if he can. The other night was a rarity. He never liked talking in interviews, but it seems worse now. It should be better after Soul Punk, right? And this weird like, claustrophobia he has going on.”

“I noticed that,” Joe said. “Sometimes, I see, like, panic on his face if he’s blocked in somewhere and can’t quickly escape. Like backstage? He actually pushed a tech in order to get out from a corner. He apologized after, because of course he did, but--pushed?”

“That’s beyond weird,” Andy agreed. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. I thought maybe he was off his anxiety meds, but Pete says no.”

“I didn’t know he was on anxiety meds,” Joe mumbled, and Andy kissed his forehead. 

“He started them during Folie,” Andy said. “You hardly said three words to each other then. He doesn’t know about yours, either.”

“I should talk to him,” Joe said. 

“You should,” Andy agreed. “You really, really should because you had a great friendship and you’re both better now. There’s still something to preserve.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Joe asked. “I just want to know if he’s alright.”

“Maybe you can find out,” Andy said, and Joe tucked his face into Andy’s shoulder.

\----

They had four days off in a row, in LA, which was some kind of miracle. They all took it as time to decompress, which was one of the conditions of getting back together. Decompression. 

Pete had gone to pick up Bronx to bring back to hang out with his uncles and almost-stepfather. Andy was at least ninety five percent sure Bronx’s puppy-dog eyes would win Joe over in a heartbeat and they’d find themselves at fucking Disneyland again, but Bronx was their prince and they did as he wished. 

Brendon had gone to see Sarah and the rest of Panic were spread out. They’d get a hotel starting tomorrow, but for now, they had three busses parked in a circle with a wide open space in between for people to smoke and drink in. 

Andy had taken one step into his bus before he saw Joe and Patrick, sitting close enough to touch, heads ducked low. Neither noticed him, too invested in whatever they were talking about, but after a moment, Joe’s arm came around to hug Patrick, and Patrick hugged back.

Andy backed out without a word. 

That still left him wandering around, so, after a moment, he decided that if Patrick was crashing his bus, he could crash Patrick’s for a bit. The mess would give him a headache, but it was better than breathing in secondhand smoke. 

Andy got a bit annoyed around smoke and shit, sue him. 

He reached for the door and paused. He narrowed his eyes and stepped closer, inspecting what looked to be an envelope taped to the handle with trepidation. 

_Pete Wentz_ was scrawled in ugly writing across the front, and Andy glanced around for anyone with a good idea of what to do. Andy didn’t know what this was, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t anything he wanted. 

“Zack,” he called, and Brendon’s manager waved at him. “What do I do with this shit?”

Zack meandered over, frowning as he saw the envelope. 

“Who snuck in here?” he wondered. “What, does security think it’s downtime for them, too?”

“Should I take it off?” Andy asked, and Zack shook his head. 

“I will,” he said. “Hang on.”

He rummaged around his pocket before producing a pair of tweezers and brandishing them. 

“Aha,” he said. “Okay, I’m gonna grab it and throw it on the ground. If it doesn’t explode, I’ll open it.”

“Cool,” Andy muttered, and moved away. 

Andy had hardly blinked when Zack did as he promised. No smoke or fire or other indications of danger erupted from the envelope, though, so after shrugging at Andy, Zack picked it up and peeked inside. 

“Huh,” he said, sounding confused. “It’s a flashdrive.”

“God,” Andy said. “Someone’s EP I bet.”

“Bold,” Zack laughed. “Should we make sure it’s not like, some weird porn or whatever?”

“Your mind is bizarre, Hall,” Andy said, but plucked the flashdrive from Zack’s hands. “Got a computer you don’t mind losing to a probable virus?”

“You’re in luck,” Zack said. “I literally just replaced mine. I’ll get the old one. It’s a piece of shit, but hey. It works.”

“Cool,” Andy said, and headed up the stairs, still staring at the flashdrive. An uneasy feeling was burying itself deep in his gut, digging in claws and not letting up. Sure, it was either some shitty band’s demo or some gag from the crew, but Andy still felt nervous. The way it was placed, maybe, or the lack of a note. Something wasn’t right about it. 

He kicked aside Pete’s shit and sat in Patrick’s spot, looking up at Zack as he entered. 

“Here,” Zack said. “If it’s a shit demo, let me listen. If it’s illegal it’s on you.”

“Cool,” Andy said, and took the offered laptop. He searched around the couch before managing to produce a battered pair of earbuds and plugged them in before sighing. He stared at the flashdrive for a long moment before sighing again and sliding it in. 

It took a second, but finally it popped up. Andy opened it up to find two folders: one labelled PICTURES and one labelled VIDEO.

So, not a demo, but maybe weird porn. Who the fuck would send Pete weird porn? Andy didn’t want to think about it too hard. In truth, this was where he should unplug it and make fun of Pete for a bit, but something told him he had to find out, no matter how much he didn’t want to.

He debated--pictures? Video? The video would probably give him a better idea of the pictures, if this made any logical sense, which was a bold assumption. Andy opened it up anyway and drummed his fingers to the beat of _Sugar_ as QuickTime loaded. 

He hit play and frowned as the frankly shitty video began. There was a man, angling the camera, a smirk on his face. He looked like he was probably naked, which. Great. Porn. 

Over his shoulder, Andy saw a second man, messing with something on the bed. Belatedly, Andy hit the volume button, bringing sound to the video and making his heart freeze in his chest. 

“No,” a voice said. It sounded slurred, maybe drunk, maybe drugged out, but it was definitely, _definitely_ Patrick. Andy had lived in Patrick’s pocket for the better part of ten years now, he knew Patrick’s voice in all its incarnations, and this was him. “Stop, stop.”

The second man laughed and, like a lightning bolt directly to Andy’s brain, the sick realization of what he was watching hit him all at once. 

No. This couldn’t be real. This could _not_ be real, Andy was dreaming or something but no. Andy’s hands curled into fists as the first man stepped aside to reveal that Andy was right.

That was Patrick, during Soul Punk it looked like, hair platinum and tear tracks down his cheeks. He looked--his wrists looked like they were tied together, then tied to the bed, and he looked completely defeated. Andy couldn’t breathe. 

“Should have filmed the first time,” the first man said. “But I promise he begged and cried then, too. Hey, do you think he’ll learn to pour his own drinks after this?”

“He’s just so _nice,”_ the other man said. “Fuck if he isn’t pretty, though.”

The second man punctuated this by grabbing Patrick’s hips, drawing a choked off sob from him. 

“No, no, stop, please,” Patrick begged, and Andy felt every last piece of his heart shatter. 

Andy didn’t want to continue, didn’t want to see this, but he forced himself to. Every minute, as Patrick cried and begged and pulled at the rope. Andy remembered with a sharp feeling of nausea the weird new habit Patrick had of rubbing at his wrist when he got stressed, _fuck._

The video ended and Andy realized he had tears on his own cheeks, too, and he was clenching his fists so hard it hurt to relax them. He yanked the earbuds from his ears, breathing hard, staring unseeingly into the lounge. He couldn’t--fuck. No. He could barely comprehend what he had just fucking seen, could barely think of the Patrick he’d seen less than a half hour ago as the same Patrick that was tied to the bed and-- _fuck._

Andy couldn’t bring himself to look at the pictures. He just couldn’t. He vaguely realized that this was put in an envelope and left for _Pete--_

This would kill Pete. It was almost killing Andy.

Andy pulled the flashdrive out and shut the computer, completely lost. 

\----

Everything fucking made sense then, everything. Of course Patrick was afraid of being trapped and unable to escape. Of course Patrick didn’t want to be alone. Of course Patrick didn’t want people he didn’t know close to him. 

Of course food tasted shitty, because Patrick probably had a serious case of PTSD and was just….not addressing it. Andy knew more about trauma than he ever had wanted to, and he knew that trauma and eating disorders went hand in hand. Food tasted shitty to Patrick because his mind’s self-defense mechanism was trying to force him back into anorexia. 

Every step Andy took back to his own bus felt like it weighed a million pounds. It was hard to breathe, it was _so_ hard to breathe. He vaguely realized he was crying, walking across the parking lot and _sobbing_ , eliciting strange looks from the crew, but he didn’t have the energy to care. 

“Joe,” he said as he entered his bus. Both Joe and Patrick jumped in surprise. Andy noticed with nausea that Patrick had grabbed Joe’s wrist before clearly thinking better of it. “Sorry. I need to talk to Patrick.”

“Babe?” Joe said, worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Andy?” Patrick asked quietly. “Breathe.”

Andy wiped at his face with the hand still clutching the flashdrive and tried to listen. He swallowed hard and looked back at Joe. 

“I need to talk to Patrick,” he repeated. “It’s important. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Joe said. “It’s okay, I’ll go. Patrick?”

“It’s okay,” Patrick said, and took Andy’s free hand gently. Andy heard Joe leave the bus, closing the door behind him and greeting Bronx. Andy shoved all that out of his head and tried to pull himself together. 

“I think I know what your doctor said,” Andy began. His voice was hoarse. 

“About?” Patrick asked, and it sounded like he really didn’t know. 

“Why food sucks,” Andy said, and Patrick’s expression clouded. 

“Really?” he said. 

“Yeah,” Andy said. “You have PTSD.”

Dead silence met Andy’s words, and Andy could practically see Patrick desperately thinking of a way out. 

“What makes you say that?” Patrick asked, voice tight, and Andy took a deep breath. 

“The video on this gives me a pretty good idea,” Andy said, holding the flashdrive up. 

Immediately, Patrick’s face drained of all color and he let Andy’s hand go, stumbling back. 

“Fuck,” Patrick said. “Oh fuck, please don’t tell me that’s--”

“Patrick,” Andy said. “Patrick, why didn’t you tell someone?”

“I did,” Patrick practically spat, reaching for the flashdrive. Andy didn’t let it go. “I told my fucking therapist. Let me have it.”

“Did you know they made a video?” Andy asked.

“Yeah, I fucking knew they made a video,” Patrick snapped, slamming his fist weakly against Andy’s chest. “I was there, remember? I remember every fucking moment and _none of you_ were _ever_ supposed to know, how the fuck did you get this, Andy?”

Patrick’s voice broke on Andy’s name and his head dropped to Andy’s shoulder as a shuddering sob escaped him. Andy wrapped his arms around Patrick, holding him as tightly as Patrick clung to him, fighting tears and losing. 

“I’m sorry,” Andy said. “Patrick, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, oh my God, Trick.”

Andy sat on the couch, pulling Patrick with him as he gave up and began crying in earnest, fingers digging into Andy’s back. Andy let him. 

“How?” Patrick asked, gasping for breath, trying to pull himself together. “How did you get this?”

“They left it for Pete,” Andy said softly. “I got to it first. I thought it was a shitty demo.”

“What?” Patrick asked, going still. “What--what do you mean, they left it for Pete?”

“In an envelope,” Andy said slowly. “Taped to your bus door.”

Patrick’s breath caught and he started shaking a little. He struggled to breathe and Andy’s already-shattered heart broke further. 

“So,” Patrick whispered. “So they’re--they’re here?”

Fuck. Andy didn’t even think about that, not for a fucking second, but Patrick was right--they could be here. They could be anywhere, they even knew what fucking bus was the right bus, _fuck._

“Even if they are,” Andy said, sounding much more confident than he felt. “I won’t let them touch you, I won’t let them near you, I’ll fucking kill them before they ever even look at you again, Patrick.”

Patrick choked on another sob and Andy held him tighter. For a long moment, nobody spoke, until Patrick managed to pull himself together a little. 

“Please,” he whispered, sounding so fucking broken it hurt. “Don’t tell Pete. Please. Don’t tell Pete, or Joe, or Brendon--please.”

That was a bad fucking idea, and Andy knew it. Andy knew Patrick had to tell Pete at least, but there was no way in fucking hell he could go against what Patrick wanted, no matter how right Andy thought he was. 

He couldn’t. He couldn’t ignore Patrick’s wishes, not after what he’d seen. 

He never would again. 

\----

Andy wasn’t surprised that once Patrick less-than-gracefully extricated himself from Andy’s space, he avoided Andy like the plague. He figured it was only fair to let Patrick have all the space he wanted, so long as he kept talking to Pete and Joe.

Which he did, with a surprising facade of normalcy. Oh, sure, nobody fucking missed Patrick walking away when Andy walked up or sitting as far from him as possible when before he was practically hip to hip with him. But Patrick carried on interacting with everyone on tour like he always fucking had, cheerful and upbeat and _not_ like Andy had just told him his rapists were probably around. 

Andy had only thought that word a handful of times, but every time felt like he was getting shot in the chest.

“You fought with him,” Joe mumbled into Andy’s neck the last morning of their decompression stop. Sunlight was creeping through the curtains over the window in their hotel room and Andy sighed as Joe pressed on. “I’m not dumb, you found something out and confronted him and now he won’t speak to you, Andy. When’s the last time that happened? Oh yeah, fucking never. Please tell me. Please. I’ve spent the last couple days convinced the band would split again.”

“No,” Andy said. “No. We’re not going that far. I’ll talk to him again, I just wanted to give him space to work it out for himself.”

“What is it?” Joe asked. 

“Hopefully he’ll come clean,” Andy said. “For his own damn sake, but until then, it’s really beyond unfair for me to tell anyone, even you. I’m sorry, babe.”

“That bad?” Joe whispered brokenly, and Andy squeezed him.

“He can get through it,” Andy said, hoping he didn’t sound doubtful. “If he stops hiding from it.”

A knock on the door derailed Joe’s answer. Joe kissed Andy’s forehead before hauling himself up and shuffling over to answer it.

“Pete?” Joe asked, and Andy sat up so quickly he felt a little dizzy. 

“I need to talk to Andy,” Pete snapped. “Now.”

“Christ, fine,” Joe said, stepping out of the way. Andy yanked a shirt on and met Pete’s eyes. There was a mix of emotions on Pete’s face that Andy had last seen just before the hiatus, desperation and fury and raw heartbreak, and he was holding something in his hand so tightly his knuckles were white. 

“You knew,” Pete said, voice harsh and frigid, and Andy knew without a doubt what Pete was talking about.

“I just found out,” Andy said. “Three days ago. I wasn’t supposed to.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Pete spat.

“He begged me not to,” Andy said. “I planned on easing him into the idea once he relaxed a little. But I couldn’t--I couldn’t ignore what he’d asked.”

Pete’s shoulders slumped a little, though his grip never failed. Joe was looking from Andy to Pete before he realized he was not going to get the clarification he wanted. He slipped out the door and Andy hoped he’d gone to find Patrick. 

“How did you find out?” Andy asked. Pete sank onto the bed next to Andy and his head dropped to his chest before he sucked in a harsh breath. 

“Last night,” he said. “He woke up screaming. I have never seen him freak out like that before. He even hit me before he realized who I was. It took the entire fucking night to get him to sleep again. This morning, I left to get coffee and this was taped to the hotel room door.”

Pete held out his hand and Andy caught sight of another flashdrive in the palm of his hand. He looked back up at Pete, who looked fucking devastated. 

“Did you look at it all?” Andy asked quietly. Pete nodded. 

“Watched the video first,” he said, breathing harsh. “Halfway through I almost woke Patrick up to demand to know everything but--I’d like to think I’m a much more mature person than that now, so instead, I looked at the fucking pictures and made myself leave the room and lap the hotel a couple times until I realized that he was avoiding you. I put two and two together and decided to yell at you.”

“So you haven’t talked to Patrick at all?” Andy asked, and Pete shook his head. 

“I don’t know how,” he said, sounding almost broken. “I don’t know how to ask without sounding angry at him. I’m not. I promise I’m not. I’m so pissed, Andy, I’ve never been this furious, but it’s not at him.”

“I know it isn’t,” Andy said. “I know.”

“Two years,” Pete said. “You realize that? He’s kept it a secret for two years. By himself. I’ve had sex with him, Andy. What if he didn’t want--”

“I know,” Andy said again, and Pete choked on a sob. “You didn’t know.”

“How do I talk to him?” he begged. “Please, Andy, help me. I have to talk to him. How? How do I sit him down and ask why he never told me he got fucking raped doing Soul Punk?”

“He got what?”

“Fuck,” Andy said, and looked up at Joe, who was frozen in the doorway. He was staring at them both like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard, and Andy sighed, and moved over for Joe to sit next to him. 

“Andy,” Joe said. “I didn’t just hear that.”

Pete choked on a sob and buried his face in his hands. Andy laid a hand gently on Pete’s shoulder and took a deep breath. 

“The other day, I found a flashdrive someone left for Pete,” Andy said quietly. “I thought it was someone’s demo so I opened it. It wasn’t. It was a video and pictures of two guys--of Patrick--fuck.”

Andy swallowed hard and forced himself to continue.

“And I guess Pete found one this morning,” Andy sighed. “Same deal.”

“Found?” Joe asked slowly. 

“Yeah,” Andy said. “Mine was taped to their bus. Pete’s was on their door.”

“Where’s Patrick?” Joe asked, sounding completely panicky.

“Asleep still,” Pete said hoarsely. “Why?”

“These were placed for Pete to find, days apart,” Joe said, all in a rush. “By people who were either responsible for the rape itself or are close friends with the fucking rapists, and they are _still here.”_

“Fuck,” Pete spat, scrambling to his feet. Andy grabbed his arm. 

“Don’t tell him,” he said urgently. “I know it’s the fucking hardest thing in the world right now, and we will talk about it with him, but not while he can run for it and fucking disappear on us. Joe’s right. People that want to hurt him are walking around. We can’t--”

“Yeah,” Pete said, and stumbled from Andy’s room immediately. Andy watched him go before Joe took his hand gently. 

“You’ve been holding onto this for three days,” Joe said, voice cracking. “You--you watched the video?”

“Yeah,” Andy said. “You don’t--I won’t let you.”

“How bad?” Joe said.

“Fucking horrific,” Andy gritted out. “Awful and long and fucking torture, Joe. I thought I was having a nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from.”

“Is that--” Joe said. “You said you had to talk to Patrick. You were crying.”

“Yes,” Andy said. “I should have handled it better.”

“Lots of should haves,” Joe said forcefully. “But all we can do is make sure he’s okay now.”

“I don’t think he is,” Andy whispered. “I don’t think he’s really dealt with it at all. God. This is horrible.”

“Of all people,” Joe said, taking Andy’s hand. “He honestly couldn’t hurt a fly. Right before Soul Punk came out he sent me a three page handwritten letter apologizing for our fights before the hiatus. Even though I was just as out of line, he still took all the responsibility. I don’t understand how someone could do this to him.”

Andy choked on a sob, feeling that overwhelming crush of helplessness hit him in the chest again. Part of him, a small, selfish part, wished he’d never found out about this. He wished he’d just thrown the flashdrive away. It wasn’t fair. This was the hardest thing Andy had ever had to cope with, and it was worse for Patrick, but all Andy could think was _God, I wish I never found out._

“I don’t understand either,” Andy finally managed. “But fuck. We have to help him.”

“If he’ll let us,” Joe said softly, and squeezed Andy’s hand.

\----

Because Andy couldn’t fucking bear making Pete do it, he opened up the fucking video and screengrabbed the two asshole’s faces. Joe was right, they could be around here somewhere, and Andy wasn’t going to ignore it. 

Zack was great for a lot of things, and one of them was the fact that he never asked questions. Andy just handed him the printed off pictures (Patrick cropped out) and said _find them and get rid of them_ and Zack had nodded. Andy knew that even if they were trying to blend in with the crew or something, they wouldn’t be in hiding for long. 

Andy absolutely hated how they had to lie to Patrick to get him more or less trapped with them. It felt disgusting, but Andy didn’t even want to chance giving Patrick the opportunity to run for it. So, under the guise of practicing SRAR acoustically, they all gathered on one bus for the next five hour stretch. 

Because Andy couldn’t help but watch Patrick closely now, he could tell Patrick had had a hard night. He sat very close to Pete as he tuned his guitar, subtly shifting closer when Pete moved. The dark circles under his eyes were much more pronounced, and his hands were a little shaky. Andy wondered if he’d eaten today. 

Andy looked at Joe, who took a deep breath before sitting on Patrick’s other side, leaving the area directly in front of Patrick for Andy. Patrick’s expression immediately closed off when Andy sat down, but he also didn’t get up and leave. Either he thought they really were practicing or he didn’t want to leave Pete, Andy wasn’t sure, but it was a start. He hoped Patrick wouldn’t really run when he realized what was happening. 

“I’m not dumb,” Patrick said quietly, playing through the opening chords. “I know we don’t have an acoustic show. So what do you want to talk to me about?”

No one answered right away, just looking at each other uncomfortably. Pete looked like he couldn’t breathe. He was staring at Patrick with such a raw look of pain on his face that it hurt Andy to look at. 

“Andy,” Patrick said. His voice was cold. “What have you told them?”

“I haven’t told them anything, Patrick,” Andy said. “I promise.”

“Okay,” Patrick said. He was still playing. “So?”

“Babe,” Pete said, and his voice cracked. Patrick looked over at him quickly, hands stilling on the guitar, and Pete reached one shaking hand out to cup Patrick’s face. “Babe. Your nightmare. Last night.”

“Yes,” Patrick said calmly. “What about it?”

Pete looked at Andy a little helplessly before visibly pulling himself together and taking Patrick’s hand. 

“I left the hotel room this morning to get coffee,” Pete said quietly. “And there was a flashdrive taped to the door.”

Patrick froze, going pale. He was staring at Pete, eyes wide, before tearing his gaze away to look at Andy almost accusingly. 

“I didn’t,” Andy said, because he knew what Patrick was going to say. “I promise.”

Patrick looked back at Pete, grip on the guitar white-knuckled. He made a couple aborted attempts to speak before finally managing it. 

“It’s nothing,” he said. “And if you think I’m going to talk about it with you, you’re absolutely insane.”

“It’s not nothing,” Joe said, and Patrick jerked like he’d forgotten Joe was even there. His eyes were wide and Andy could see a hint of panic, so he cut in. 

“Joe’s right, it’s not nothing,” he said. “But we’re not going to force you to do anything. We are here, though. You don’t have to deal with it on your own.”

“I don’t want to talk about this with you,” Patrick said. His voice was remarkably even, but Andy figured he probably was just completely shutting down at this point. “I don’t want to talk about this with any of you. Leave it alone.”

“Babe--”

 _“No,”_ Patrick said, hands tightening on the neck of the guitar. “It was fine before you found out. You were never supposed to find out. And it would probably be best if you forgot about it because this is the last time I will tolerate it being brought up. It’s nothing.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s fine,” Pete said. It really wasn’t, but Andy allowed it to pass without complaint. Pete’s voice was small. “But we’re here. We’re _here,_ Patrick. We love you. I love you.”

Patrick didn’t look away, hardly blinked. His grip still looked painfully tight on the guitar and he swallowed hard. 

“How did the flashdrives get here?” he finally asked. 

“We don’t know,” Andy said. “Zack’s gonna see if they’re trying to hide among the crew.”

 _“Zack?”_ Patrick demanded, voice desperate. Andy shook his head quickly.

“He doesn’t know!” Andy reassured. “I swear he doesn’t know. He thinks they’re weird Panic stalkers. I promise I didn’t tell him.”

Patrick let out a harsh breath. He was kind of twitchy. He drummed his fingers on the guitar for a moment before apparently breaking out of his trance a little. 

“I’m leaving now,” he said shortly. “This conversation is over.”

“We’re here for you,” Andy said. 

“I heard you the first time,” Patrick said, but there was no heat in it at all. He stood, walking quickly past the rest of the band and towards the bunks. Pete started to get up but Joe grabbed his wrist. 

“I know your first instinct is to go to him,” he said quietly. “But he probably wants to be alone for a while. He needs time. He just found out that a) one of his deepest darkest secrets is now common knowledge and b) people who hurt him are potentially around. Give him a while to process this.”

“I just want to help,” Pete said desperately.

“We all do,” Andy said. “But we can’t take away his choices doing it.” 

Pete took a deep breath and Andy copied him. He tried to tell himself it would be okay. He tried. 

\----

It was nightfall when the busses stopped for a break again. 

“Go ahead,” Pete said. “I’ll wait for him.”

“I’m here,” Patrick said, appearing in the doorway to the lounge. He had his hands in his pockets but, after a moment, held one out for Pete to take. Pete inhaled sharply but crossed to Patrick, taking his hand almost achingly gently and kissing the back of it. 

“Can I talk to Pete, guys?” Patrick asked quietly, and Andy nodded before following Joe off the bus. One glance behind him saw Patrick with his head buried in Pete’s neck and holding on tight. Andy swallowed hard and left. 

He kissed Joe’s cheek. 

“Go,” he said. “Go smoke up. You need it. Take a breather.”

“I don’t have to,” Joe said. Andy kissed him for real. 

“I know,” he said. “But it will help distract you.”

“I love you,” Joe said, and Andy gave him the first real smile since the flashdrive. 

“I love you, too,” he said, and, as Brendon materialized beside Joe, he let Brendon drag him off. 

Andy took a deep breath of the crisp night air and cracked his neck. Normally when the busses took a break, Andy would find Spencer and let Spencer ask all his questions about being sober. But Spencer had left a few weeks ago. It was best for him, but Brendon was hurting over it, which was only one of a myriad of reasons Brendon shouldn’t ever find out about Patrick. 

And also why it was a good thing to let Joe go get high with him. 

“Hey, Andy,” Zack said, and Andy turned to face him. Zack held his usual clipboard in his hands and looked tired. 

“Hey,” Andy said. “What’s up?”

“Found the two fuckers,” Zack said. “Sort of beat the crap out of them.”

“Why?” Andy asked, and Zack fixed him with a look. 

“Because shortly before I did,” he said. “I found a flashdrive left for Brendon.”

“Oh fuck,” Andy said, heart sinking. 

“I should have killed them,” Zack said evenly. “I wanted to. Of all the fucking people in the entire world, Patrick is the kindest. The thought that anyone would go through that is bad enough, but him? I could hardly see straight I was so angry.”

“Did you tell Brendon?” Andy asked. 

“No,” Zack said. “I recruited a couple crew members, told them we were beating the shit out of some rapists, and they gladly helped. They didn’t know who or what. I found their things, went through them, and destroyed all electronics. I don’t know if they had backups, but it was all I could do.”

“Jesus,” Andy said. “Where are they now?”

“After I told them that spreading this shit was as good as a confession,” Zack said. “They fucking ran for it. I told them if they ever showed up again, I really would kill them. They didn’t seem eager to test me.”

“Thank you,” Andy said, and Zack inclined his head. 

“I won’t tell Brendon or anyone else,” he said. “And I won’t tell Patrick I know. It’s gotta be hard enough for him that you know.”

“Unfortunately,” Andy said. “The whole band knows now. Lots of flashdrives.”

Zack scowled. 

“Phenomenal,” he said. “I really should have killed them. I hope to God they didn’t leave more out before I got to them.”

“Don’t even say it,” Andy said. “Oh, God.”

“How’s he doing?” Zack asked. Andy glanced behind him at the bus, but neither Pete nor Patrick had come out. 

“In complete denial,” he said. “I think he has been since it happened. He said he told his therapist but he evidently is not getting good advice or is just not following it.”

“This is Patrick,” Zack said.

“Not following it,” Andy amended. “I’m not sure what to do about that. He’s talking to Pete right now.”

“That’s a step,” Zack said. “I’m really fucking sorry. I know I can’t tell him, but I want you to know. I’m sorry this happened.”

“Me, too,” Andy said, and Zack squeezed his shoulder. 

“Hang in there,” he said quietly. 

“Thanks,” Andy said. “For everything.”

Zack nodded and headed towards Brendon and Joe, who were smoking up off to the side. Andy took a deep breath and wandered back towards his bus. He wasn’t _trying_ to eavesdrop--okay, that was a lie, he was, but he just wanted to make sure Pete wasn’t being, well, Pete.

“It really wasn’t your fault,” Andy heard Pete whisper as he stopped just outside the open bus door. 

“I got drunk, Pete,” Patrick replied. He sounded calm, but Andy knew he wasn’t.

“That’s not consent,” Pete said. “It’s not. You said no, and they ignored you. That’s rape. It’s not your fault.”

“I should have--”

“There is no should have,” Pete said. “You couldn’t have fought them off, there were two and they were both double your size. You were twenty seven, you were allowed to drink without worrying about getting fucking assaulted. The only should have that there is is the fact that this should have been prevented by not even happening in the first place. Patrick. It was not your fault.”

“I never wanted you to know.”

“I know,” Pete said, and his voice was raw. “I know you didn’t, and I’m sorry I found out if only because it went against your wishes, but please stop thinking I could possibly love you less. How could I? How on Earth could I?”

Patrick choked on a sob and Andy felt it like a knife to the gut. 

“I love you,” Patrick said, voice breaking. “Pete, I love you, I love you so much, Pete--”

“I know, Trick,” Pete whispered. “I know. I love you. I love you and I’m here, I will always be here.”

Patrick took a shaky breath. 

“I wanted it,” Patrick managed. “The sex I had with you. I wanted it. Please don’t think otherwise. You have never--”

Patrick cut himself off with another sob. Pete was uncharacteristically quiet until Patrick continued. 

“You have never made me do something I didn’t want to do, Pete,” Patrick said. “You have never made me feel unsafe. You have never made me feel betrayed.”

“Even--”

_“Never.”_

There was a moment of silence where Andy felt like he couldn’t breathe before Pete spoke again. 

“Trick,” he said softly. “I know you didn’t want us to know, and I understand why. It was your story and it was unfair and wrong for it to be told by anyone but you. But you don’t have to deal with it by yourself, babe. You don’t. I’m here. I will be here until the world fucking ends, Trick. You can talk to me. You can talk to us. This was not your fault.”

Andy had to clench his jaw to keep from sobbing. He wanted to just fall to his knees in front of Patrick and tell him, over and over and over, that he would do anything to help him. Anything. 

He couldn’t even begin to imagine how fucking hard it must have been for Patrick to be violated twice. Once during the rape, and again because of the flashdrives. 

“I don’t know how,” Patrick whispered. 

“It’s okay,” Pete whispered back. “I’ll help you figure it out.”

\----

Joe hid the McDonald’s bag behind him, eyes guilty, and it was so fucking normal for the first time in days that Andy burst out laughing. Joe pouted, which only served to make Andy laugh harder and drag him to his feet.

“I am going to make you brush your teeth until your gums bleed,” he teased. 

“Kinky,” Joe giggled. Andy rolled his eyes as Joe draped his body over Andy’s.

Andy wrinkled his nose. 

“God,” he said. “You fucking reek. What is it, a new blend?”

“Yeah,” Brendon said. “Does it smell?”

“Like shit,” Andy said. “Add a fucking shower to the tooth brushing, Joe.”

“Anything you want, babe,” Joe said easily. 

“I wish my boyfriend was that agreeable,” Patrick said, and Andy glanced at him. His eyes were a little red under his glasses and his gaze, when it landed on Andy, was guarded, but he was outside. 

“Patrick!” Brendon practically shouted. Patrick actually grinned as Brendon threw his arms around him and monkey-clung to him, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Thought you were asleep maybe.”

“No,” Patrick said. “Just talking. You smell really bad, B.”

“That’s what Andy said,” Brendon pouted. “Zack?”

“Really bad,” Zack confirmed, not looking up from his phone. 

“You’re all mean,” Brendon said, then burst into high-people giggles. “Where’s the rest of my fries? God _damn_ it, Dan!”

With that, he took off, Zack on his heels, leaving Joe still draped across Andy, and Patrick looking at them both. 

Patrick scuffed his shoe against the ground and sighed. 

“Pete and I are watching a movie,” he offered. “You can come watch too, if you want.”

“Okay,” Joe said, sounding surprisingly sober. Patrick wrinkled his nose. 

“You do have to shower first,” he said, and flashed Andy a tiny but genuine smile. 

“I’ll make sure he does,” Andy said, and that was that.

\----

It took a few weeks before Patrick said anything about it to Andy. 

Pete and Joe had gone to do a toast interview--( _What_ is a toast interview? How am I supposed to know that?)--and Andy had invited himself onto Pete and Patrick’s bus in order to spare Patrick from having to ask. 

Patrick was on the phone when Andy walked in with his copy of _Drum!,_ a bottle of water, and the almonds that had survived Joe’s munchie destruction. Patrick glanced at him for a moment, before looking back to his planner in front of him, drumming his pen against the coffee table. 

“No,” Patrick said. “We don’t get done with tour until the end of October.”

Whoever he was talking to was saying something stupid, because Patrick rolled his eyes. He glanced at Andy again before writing in his bold handwriting in the corner of the page: STUDIO TIME.

Andy rolled his, too. Their manager needed to be fired, for real. He could keep nothing straight. Thank God for Patrick, really.

“No,” Patrick said again. “Because none of us want to record halfway through the tour. No. It will have to be after.”

Patrick scoffed. 

“Fine, I won’t speak for them,” he said, a little testily. “ _I_ do not want to record halfway through the tour. It’s going to be difficult to record a new single without the lead singer.”

Andy gestured to himself, and Patrick smirked. 

“No,” Patrick said. “They cannot convince me. And neither can you. Are you telling me there is no studio in the entirety of Los Angeles that has time after the end of October? Or do you just not feel like looking?”

Andy held his hand out and Patrick handed him the phone with a huff. 

“Hello,” Andy said. 

“Hello, Mr. Hurley,” their manager said. He sounded bored. Patrick had far more patience than normal, apparently. 

“I do not want to record halfway through tour,” he said. “So unless you can find a new drummer _and_ a new lead singer _and_ sell the rest of our band on them, you’re not getting us to the studio right now.”

“As I told Mr. Stump,” the manager said. “You have a certain obligation--”

“Where in our contract does it say we have to work ourselves to death?” Andy asked. “I don’t remember that part.”

“When you’re signed with a label, you follow their rules,” the manager said. “Ask Mr. Stump how successful he was when he went off label.”

“Next time I see you,” Andy snapped. “I’m going to fucking deck you.”

“Mr. Hurley--”

“No recording. Bye.”

Andy hung up and handed Patrick his phone back. Patrick sighed. 

“When can we fire him?” he asked, and Andy rolled his eyes, finally sitting next to Patrick. 

“Not soon enough,” Andy said. “Are you hungry?”

“I just ate,” Patrick said. “For real, I promise.”

“Okay,” Andy said, and Patrick sighed before leaning back on the couch, shoulder to shoulder with Andy. Andy let him sit in silence for a moment, tossing a handful of almonds into his mouth and flipping through the magazine. He’d grabbed the wrong one, he’d read this one already.

“What’s a toast interview?” he eventually asked, and Patrick snorted before tugging the magazine from Andy’s hands. 

“Apparently,” he said, opening to an article on the new design on kick drums. “They will be taste testing toast. Blindfolded.”

“Okay,” Andy said slowly. “Uh, why?”

“Because Alternative Press continues to be the weirdest magazine in existence,” Patrick replied. “Joe seemed excited.”

“Joe’s still a little high,” Andy said. Patrick flipped to the next page and Andy noticed his hands were trembling a little. He didn’t comment. Patrick would talk to him or Patrick wouldn’t, but Andy couldn’t press. Wouldn’t press.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Patrick said. He sounded calm, and Andy needed no clarification on _it_. “I don’t particularly want to be thinking about it, but I haven’t exactly been getting what I want lately.”

Andy didn’t say anything, and Patrick flipped to the next page. 

“I always thought I was drunk,” Patrick said. Andy bit back the _it wouldn’t matter_ he wanted to make. That wasn’t what Patrick was saying. “But for the life of me, whenever I very unwillingly thought about that whole day in particular, I can’t remember having more than one drink.”

Andy hesitantly rested his hand on Patrick’s wrist. Patrick was still trembling a little, and he was staring at the same place on the page with incredible focus. 

“So I’ve concluded,” Patrick continued. “That they drugged me. They were the ones who got me the drink. Which means they had been planning it, because you don’t spontaneously drug someone. So I was less a convenient body and more a prized kill.”

Patrick shut the magazine and rested it in his lap, still staring at the ground. He took in a deep breath, someone shakily, before looking up to meet Andy’s eyes. His were watery behind his glasses and Andy was suddenly struck by how much Patrick had had to process in the past couple of weeks. 

His original plan was apparently to continue shoving it down and down and down, which Andy knew wouldn’t work out long term, but God. Mid-tour was a very hard time for Patrick to have to come to terms with being raped. 

“The fact that they planned it means there was _nothing_ I could have done that night that would have prevented it,” Patrick whispered. “It meant no matter what I did, they would have found a way. It means--”

Patrick bit his lip hard and looked away, screwing up his face in a clear effort to avoid tears. Andy took Patrick’s hand gently and waited. 

“It means it really wasn’t my fault,” Patrick said, voice cracking. “It means I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Patrick,” Andy finally said. He swallowed hard. “Patrick, look at me.”

Patrick took a deep breath and did. His eyes were bright and cheeks pink and Andy very slowly pulled him into his arms. Patrick didn’t go tense, just relaxed, letting himself fall into Andy’s embrace. 

“No matter what had happened leading up to it that night,” Andy said. “No matter if they planned it or didn’t, no matter if you were drunk or sober, no matter if you’d been flirting with them all night, Patrick, no matter _what_ , this was not your fault. Patrick. They raped you. No matter what, you said no and they ignored it. This was never and could never be your fault.”

Patrick turned his head into Andy’s chest and held him tighter. After a moment, he took a deep breath.

“I think I believe you,” he said, voice muffled, and Andy pulled him closer.

\----

They had two fucking weeks--just seven shows--left when the death flu descended on the tour. It was like a domino effect--All of Panic!, then Joe and Andy, then Pete, then Patrick. 

They didn’t miss a damn show, dragged themselves out on the stage despite 103 degree fevers and chills and pure exhaustion amplified by the end of a tour. Watching Brendon, it was like he wasn’t even remotely sick, until he came off stage and quite literally passed out into Zack’s arms. 

Patrick rarely spoke, and when he did, he complained of being dizzy. Any time he had an opportunity to sit, he sat, sometimes with his head dropped down to try and fix the vertigo. He had a high fever, too, higher than the rest of them, but they still went on. 

“We wanted to come and perform for you,” Pete said into the mic. The one saving grace is that they weren’t coughing, so their voices were fine. “But the whole tour has the death flu, so if we seem less energetic, that’s why.”

The crowd clapped in support and they launched into _Phoenix._

By the time they hit _Dance, Dance_ , halfway through their set, it became apparent that Patrick was not going to make it. During their video interlude, Patrick leaned against Joe as Pete walked to Andy’s kit and quickly shortened the setlist down to three more songs and no encore. They’d managed most of SRAR already, so all they had left was _Sugar, Grand Theft Autumn_ , and _Saturday._

Decision made, Pete told the stage manager and Andy hopped off his chair to walk to Joe and Patrick. 

“Cut the set,” he said gently. “Just three left. Can you do three?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick whispered. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Please don’t,” Joe said, alarmed. Patrick swayed a little. 

“I don’t like this,” he said, voice cracking, and, with a pang, Andy realized that being dizzy and uncoordinated and out of control was probably incredibly triggering. Andy gently wrapped his arm around Patrick’s waist.

“We’re here,” he reminded Patrick. “We’re here. You’re okay.”

Joe took Patrick’s hand. 

“It’s just you, me, Andy, and Pete,” he said softly. “We’ll finish and walk straight to the bus. No one else will touch you. I promise.”

“Okay,” Patrick managed. He swallowed and squeezed Joe’s hand, but it was more of a _please stay upright_ gesture this time. “Three more. I’m really sorry if I pass out.”

“It’s okay,” Pete said, coming up behind Patrick. “I’ll catch you.”

Andy backed away, back to his drums, and they all spread out to their usual places. Patrick looked shaky as hell and Andy suddenly doubted very much that Patrick would make it through even three songs. 

_Sugar_ went fine, even though Pete was too distracted to give his salute. Pete wasn’t looking too good, either. Made sense. Those two caught it after he and Joe, so he and Joe were doing better. 

_GTA_ was iffy, Patrick really pitchy. At one point, he’d stopped playing the guitar altogether, clutching the mic stand instead. Andy hoped to God Patrick wouldn’t pass out during Saturday, but it wasn’t looking good. 

Zack was in the wings, watching Patrick like a hawk. He met Andy’s eyes and made a face that Andy understood immediately to be _I’m waiting._

Patrick took a deep breath and launched into _Saturday_ , the band following suit. They made it to the bridge, Patrick leaning heavily on Pete during their usual shoulder-to-shoulder, but when the chorus came around again, that was it. 

Andy knew Patrick was going to be so mad at himself later, but Patrick didn’t even begin to sing again, just mouthed _fuck._ Pete had already dropped the bass for the screamo bit, and he was there immediately as Patrick fell. 

Joe got there a split second before Andy, and Zack a couple seconds after that. 

“It’s okay,” Pete was saying. “It’s okay, it’s okay, we’ve got you.”

“Let me get your guitar,” Joe said gently. “And then we can walk you off.”

Joe managed to extricate Patrick’s guitar, and Andy took it and handed it to Zack.

“He’s not going to want anyone around him,” Andy whispered. “Can you clear the path to the greenroom? We’ll worry about the bus after.”

Zack nodded and carried Patrick and Joe’s guitars off, handing them to the techs before beginning to hustle everyone out. 

Andy knelt at Patrick’s head and very gently took his hat off. 

“Hi, Patrick,” he said quietly. “Just us, okay?”

“I can’t breathe,” Patrick gasped. 

“Joe,” Andy said. 

“Inhaler,” Joe said immediately, and stood, racing off the stage to the greenroom. 

“Patrick,” Andy said calmly. “It will help if I take your jacket off. May I take your jacket off?”

Patrick nodded. Andy glanced at Pete, and together they carefully took Patrick’s leather jacket off. He wasn’t sweaty, which was a real concern. How could his fever have not broken yet?

“I can’t breathe,” Patrick said again. “I can’t, I can’t breathe.”

He was starting to panic which was the worst possible outcome. Andy knew this had to be horrible for him--weak and dizzy and someone taking off his clothes. Andy didn’t know how much his breathing issues was caused by asthma and how much was a panic attack. 

“You can breathe, babe,” Pete whispered. The crowd was muttering and Andy realized they were still on stage. Shit. “I promise you you can breathe. We’re here. I’m here. You’re okay.”

“Please,” Patrick whispered brokenly, and fuck, Andy’s heart broke a little more. 

“Okay,” he said gently. “It’s okay. Patrick, it’s okay. It’s us. You are safe. It’s okay.”

“Get me out of here,” Patrick pleaded, eyes on Pete, grabbing Pete’s arm desperately. 

“Can you walk?” Pete asked. “We’ll get you out of here. We’ll get you backstage.”

“I don’t know,” Patrick said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t need to be sorry,” Andy said gently. “Let’s see if you can stand.”

Andy and Pete had always worked well together and this was no exception. They were able to get Patrick to his feet fairly quickly, supporting him on either side. Patrick was shaking, and Andy didn’t know if it was from anxiety or the flu or both, but he clearly wouldn’t be able to support himself for long if they let go. 

“Step by step, babe,” Pete said softly, and Patrick nodded. By some miracle, they managed it, the crowd cheering their support as they left the stage. They eased Patrick down onto the couch in the greenroom, and Andy shook his head as Zack hovered in the doorway. 

_Calming him down_ , he mouthed, and Zack nodded. Andy turned back to Patrick. Pete was sitting on the arm of the couch, carding his hand through Patrick’s hair. Joe was kneeling on the floor, holding Patrick’s hand. Patrick had his inhaler in his other hand and had already taken it, his breathing deeper and more even. 

Andy knelt beside Joe. 

“Hey, Patrick,” he said softly. “How are you feeling now?”

“I’m so sorry,” Patrick whispered, and Joe squeezed Patrick’s hand. 

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Joe said. “Brendon passed out, too, remember?”

“Not on stage,” Patrick said. “I ruined the show.”

“No,” Pete said. “If you hadn’t passed out, I probably would have. It’s okay. You’re sick, Trick.”

Patrick took a deep breath. 

“Sorry I freaked out,” Patrick said.

“Patrick,” Joe said calmly. “It’s okay. It’s really, really okay. We’re here. We’ll always be here.”

Andy pressed against Joe, hoping he’d know what it meant. _Thank you._ Joe struggled with words sometimes, but he had the right ones now. 

“Do you want to stay here?” Andy asked. “Or do you want to go back to the bus?”

“I want to go to sleep,” Patrick managed. “On the bus. But I don’t know if I can make it.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Pete said, and pressed a kiss to Patrick’s forehead. 

\----

They managed it, and Patrick was curled up on the sofa bed he and Pete used. He was _out,_ face still red and fever still hot. He was pressed against Pete, holding on for what seemed like dear life, and Pete was petting his hair. 

“You should sleep, too,” Andy whispered. Pete shook his head. 

“In case he wakes up,” he said. 

“We’re here, too,” Andy said. “We’re staying on your bus. Joe’s getting us some essentials. You two are _sick,_ and besides, we owe you. You took care of us.”

Pete kissed Patrick’s head. 

“I don’t want him to wake up scared,” Pete said, voice tiny. 

“If he’s going to have a nightmare, he will regardless of whether you’re awake or not,” Andy said. “Go to sleep, Petey. We’re here.”

Pete buried his face in Patrick’s hair and nodded. Andy squeezed his shoulder and stood, walking to the front lounge where Joe was sitting. 

“Got clothes,” he said. “And our laptops and your dumb food.”

“I love you so much,” Andy said, and straddled Joe’s lap. Joe grinned up at him, tired but more relaxed. 

“How are they?” he asked. 

“Asleep,” Andy said. “Have I--have I abandoned you?”

“No,” Joe said gently. “A lot of things have happened that have demanded all of our attention. I know you love me. I know you’ll always be here. Needing to pay attention to Patrick for a while isn’t going to change that.”

“I feel guilty,” Andy said, and Joe kissed him, slow and deep. 

“I know,” Joe said. “I do, too. But Patrick--it’s not our fault. I was talking to Patrick before we found out and he said we needed the hiatus. And we--we kind of did.”

“We were going to implode,” Andy said. “The hiatus saved us. We’d been together so long, you and Patrick forced to grow up like this, that we needed time to grow on our own. And we did. And we’re better now.”

“At first,” Joe said. “I was thinking that if we hadn’t gone on hiatus, this might never have happened.”

“Or maybe it would have,” Andy countered. “Or maybe Patrick might have killed himself like he was planning on doing. Remember? Besides. Because we took a break, we all realized how much we needed each other. In more ways than one.”

“I spent so long loving you,” Joe said. “And thinking you’d never love me back.”

Andy kissed him. 

“I’ve always loved you,” Andy whispered. “Always. And I always will. But I don’t know if I ever would have found the courage to tell you if I wasn’t apart from you for a while.”

Joe traced down the tattoo on Andy’s neck before leaning in to press a kiss to it. 

“Pete and Patrick,” Joe said. “Do you know how long we’ve waited for them to realize they’d only be happy together? They would have _never_ \--without the break.”

“It was good,” Andy said. “It was good for all of us, and even though the mention of Soul Punk makes me want to _scream_ in rage, it was good for Patrick. The album, I mean. It meant so much to him. I don’t even have words for how much I fucking hate those monsters.”

“I’m so glad I didn’t see the video,” Joe said. “It was fucking hard enough hearing it from you. Is that selfish?”

“No,” Andy said. “It’s fair. Sometimes I wish I’d never found out, but--Patrick needed us to know. He didn’t realize it, but he needed to know we were there. He spent the entire time before our hiatus letting all of us lean on him and getting nothing in return. He can lean on me as long as he needs.”

There was a knock at their bus door and Andy hauled himself off Joe’s lap to go answer it. 

“Hey, B,” Andy said. Brendon’s eyes were red and he was gritting his jaw. “You okay?”

“Andy,” Zack said quietly. “There was one more.”

“Fuck,” Andy said. “B, I--it’s not okay, but we’re dealing with it.”

“Where are they?” Brendon asked. His voice was hoarse. Andy sighed. 

“Gone,” he said. “Dealt with. Zack, I think it’s time to do a real sweep for flashdrives.”

“Way ahead of you,” Zack said. “Brendon won’t listen to me.”

“You cannot talk to Patrick about this,” Andy said firmly. “Absolutely fucking not, Brendon. He doesn’t even know that Zack knows. It will fucking kill him to know you know.”

“I want to kill them,” Brendon said, raw honesty in his voice. “Really and truly. I want to kill them.”

“We all do, B,” Andy said gently. “I know how hard it is to find this out.”

“Fuck how hard it is for me,” Brendon snapped. “Nobody--Andy, Patrick was _alone_ after this. He had _nobody_. This was on his solo tour, not the one with us. Andy. He had no one and it kills me.”

“He has us now,” Andy said. “He has us and we’re coping.”

“Is he okay?” Brendon asked. Suddenly, he was that tiny, scrawny, eighteen year old kid that sought approval from Fall Out Boy, that trailed after Pete and hero worshipped Patrick. Andy pulled him into a hug.

“He will be,” Andy said. “I know he will be. Currently, our main priority is his fucking 104 degree fever that won’t break. We will continue coping after that.”

“Is he okay from passing out?” Brendon asked. 

“Embarrassed,” Andy said. “He’s asleep.”

“I love him,” Brendon said.

“I’ll tell him,” Andy said softly. 

\----

Andy poked his head into the back room. Pete and Patrick were still tangled together, unmoved from when Andy left them last. 

The back of Patrick’s t-shirt was damp, and Andy breathed a sigh of relief. His fever was breaking. Thank any God that had ever existed. 

Patrick made a soft noise, drawing Andy’s attention immediately. He hovered where he was, unsure if he should intervene. Patrick made it again--it was a sort of groan and whine all in one. 

Andy had taken one step forward when Patrick’s breathing caught and he whimpered and flinched, gasping for breath. He cried out, softly, but Andy didn’t wait another second. 

Pete was stirring as Andy brushed Patrick’s hair back and shook his shoulder gently. 

“Hey, Patrick,” he called gently. “Wake up. It’s okay.”

Patrick gasped, flinched, and grabbed Andy’s hand hard, eyes flying open and body tense. 

“It’s okay,” Pete said softly, and Patrick looked from him to Andy with wide eyes before he visibly registered where he was and who was with him. He let Andy go.

“Sorry,” he whispered, and Pete pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“It’s okay,” he repeated. “You’re okay.”

“How are you feeling?” Andy whispered, and Patrick swiped a hand across his face. 

“Better, I think,” he said. “I’m not as dizzy anymore.”

“Good,” Andy said. “Your fever broke, it looks like.”

Patrick made a face, leaning away from Pete and pulling at his shirt.

“Hooray,” he said dryly. Pete kissed him. 

“We can shower,” Pete assured him. 

“Are you hungry?” Andy asked. 

“Kind of,” Patrick said, which Andy took to mean _fucking starving, damn it._ “Where are we?”

“Uh,” Andy said. “Middle of nowhere, USA. We’re gonna stop pretty soon, like an hour maybe.”

“Okay,” Patrick said. “I feel like I’ve been asleep for one million years.”

“About five hours or so,” Andy said. 

“Thanks,” Patrick said. “For taking care of me.”

“You took care of me, first,” Andy said. “I have it on good authority that I am a complete bitch when I’m sick.”

“Not a _complete_ bitch,” Patrick said, and Andy huffed a laugh. 

“Go shower,” Andy said. “Let Pete help you, I don’t want you to fall.”

“I’m not eighty,” Patrick grumbled, but allowed Pete to help him up anyway. Andy watched them rifle through the suitcases they’d shoved in the bunks and pull out clothes before making their way to the tiny bus bathroom. 

“How is he?” Joe asked, looking up from his videogame as Andy walked back into the front lounge. 

“Fever broke,” Andy replied, falling onto the couch next to Joe. “He’s taking a shower. He’s actually hungry, it’s a miracle.”

Joe laughed. 

“He was having a nightmare,” Andy said. “I woke him up from it. He seemed okay after, though.”

“Probably got there in the beginning,” Joe said. “I asked the driver to make sure there was a vegan place when we stop. She says there is.”

“Babe,” Andy whispered, and kissed him. “You’re the best.”

“I did very little,” Joe said. “Your bar, babe. So low.”

Andy just kissed him again.

“Can you answer something for me?” Joe asked, as Andy pulled away.

“I’ll answer anything,” Andy said. 

“It’s going to be okay, right?” Joe asked. Andy took his hand. 

“I think it is,” Andy said. “Eventually. I really think it is.”


	2. patrick.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick had an incessant stopwatch in his head, counting down exactly how many seconds, minutes, hours, days it had been since what happened happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and this is a companion piece from patrick's pov. all the same warnings apply, along with the following: patrick's point of view is extremely graphic and upsetting. please, please take care of yourselves.

Patrick had an incessant stopwatch in his head, counting down exactly how many seconds, minutes, hours, days it had been since what happened happened. 

Patrick didn’t remember much of what happened immediately after. He was sure if he tried to think about it he would remember, but his goal was to not think about it. Not now, not ever. In fact, no matter how much of himself he put into Soul Punk, it would probably be for the best if everyone forgot it existed. 

The stopwatch told him it had been six months, five days, seven hours, and twenty three minutes since That Night when he met with Pete about the reunion. It was so fucking important that Pete not notice anything different. He could notice the weight loss. (Patrick wanted everyone to notice the weight loss. The weight loss and nothing else. If they noticed anything else, they might pick him apart like vultures.)

But Patrick desperately hoped Pete wouldn’t notice the shadow that followed him around, choking him, reminding him, always reminding him. He was so fucking weak, it had been six _months_ , and it was just some bad sex, it wasn’t--he had _no reason--_

Seeing Pete, in real life, across from him in the cafe--as ridiculous as it sounded, it felt like home. It felt like Pete had taken the burn Patrick had been carrying and smothered it in aloe, then taken his hand and wiped the tears off his heart.

Even though Pete didn’t love Patrick the way Patrick had always loved Pete, even though he’d never love Patrick that way, especially not now--just seeing Pete loosened Patrick’s chest, made him feel like he could breathe. 

He didn’t dare hope that his band would get back together. He knew how he had been pre-hiatus. He knew how difficult he’d been, how much he fought, his anger issues. It would be ridiculous for them to want him back, especially not Joe. 

But when Pete talked about it, Patrick couldn’t help but wish.

\-----

They’re there. They’re there, he knew they were there, he knew if he opened his eyes and looked up, he would see them. He felt their gaze on him, knew they were standing above him and watching him. If he moved, if he looked, they would be on him. They would hold him down, they would--

Penny licked at his face, at the tears that had been falling, and Patrick released a breath in a harsh sigh. They weren’t there. Penny would bark if they were there, and she hadn’t, and she was right next to him. He was okay. He was okay.

He pulled Penny into his arms, burying his face into her fur, like he did nearly every single night. Somehow, she knew what he needed. She held still, licked at his tears, nuzzled into his chest. Holding her made Patrick feel better, even though she was a Pomeranian. He felt safe. 

He knew his therapist would say lots of things about Penny being a therapy dog and how she could be helpful with PTSD and had he considered telling anyone and lightening his load, but none of that mattered. It didn’t matter that if anything happened to Penny, Patrick would completely lose it. It didn’t matter that Penny was the only thing that helped.

It just worked. 

Patrick looked up at the clock. Four in the morning. He’d lasted longer than he usually did. He pressed a kiss to Penny’s head. 

“C’mon, girl,” he whispered. “You want a treat? Get brushed?”

Penny licked him and Patrick held her to his chest as he made his way down the hall in his condo towards the den. He faltered in the hallway--it was so dark, God, it was so dark in there, they could be in there and Patrick wouldn’t know until it was too late--

He hadn’t realized he’d begun hyperventilating until Penny squirmed in his grasp to lick at his face again, breaking him out of his paranoia. He sucked in a deep breath and held Penny a little tighter.

They weren’t there. Patrick had three locks and an alarm system and he was _safe._

He reached out one shaking hand and flipped on the light. 

Empty. The den was empty, the mirror above the fireplace just reflecting him: pale, dark circles, high cheekbones, wide eyes. Scared. 

He kissed Penny again. 

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, let’s get you a treat. Hmm? Yeah?”

Penny licked him. 

“I love you,” Patrick said, voice cracking. He felt disconnected, free-floating. He felt lost. 

\-----

Patrick met with Pete one more time before they’d all meet. He’d just finished the six hour phone call with Joe, which went surprisingly well, and he was cautiously optimistic. 

But first, Pete asked to talk to him, and Patrick assumed it would be about their codependency, so he prepped himself to pretend to not be in love with Pete, like he always had. 

That wasn’t really what happened. 

“Hi, Penny,” Pete cooed, giving her some belly rubs. “And hello, Patrick.”

The dazzling Wentz smile nearly knocked the breath out of Patrick, but he managed to grin back. 

“Hi,” he said, and Pete followed him into the den. “Talking with Joe went well.”

Pete nodded enthusiastically. 

“I talked to him, too,” he said. “I think he’s in.”

Patrick nodded. He knew Joe would be in. Patrick just needed to keep himself quiet and kind and--he just needed to not be noticed. Nothing bad happened if he was just unnoticed.

Not that Joe would do anything bad. Not that any of them would. The sick, scared feeling Patrick got in public was just him being ridiculous.

“Patrick,” Pete said quietly. “I decided--I want the band to get back together. More than fucking anything I want to make music with my best friends again. But I can’t do if I don’t say something.”

“Say what?” Patrick asked quietly. His heart was beating erratically. 

Pete took a deep breath. 

“I want you to know,” he said. “That if you don’t agree, it won’t be the end. I mostly just want to say it so we can move on. Okay?”

“You’re not making sense,” Patrick whispered. Pete swallowed. 

“I’m so in love with you, Patrick,” he said, voice cracking, and everything in Patrick froze in place. His eyes were huge, he could tell, and he felt like he didn’t know a single word of English. “I thought the hiatus would stop it, but it didn’t. God, it never did. And I can move on, at least I hope so, but I can’t keep it quiet anymore. That might be selfish but--I can’t.”

A million things were running through Patrick’s head like _oh no,_ and _oh my god_ and _no, it’s too late_ and _you can’t want me_. He didn’t say any of them, just opened and closed his mouth a couple times before something he didn’t recognize took over.

He crossed to Pete, went up on tiptoes, and kissed him. 

All at once, everything in Patrick’s mind went quiet. For the first time in seven months, two days, fifteen hours, and twenty two minutes, all he felt was peace, washing over him in waves, crashing gently on his skin as Pete sighed into his mouth and kissed back, arms wrapping around Patrick and holding him in the exact way Patrick desperately wanted. 

He couldn’t stop, he couldn’t, he wanted to fall into Pete and never come out. Here with Pete, things were okay. He could throw a curtain up, separating the constant replay of That Night, he could turn the stopwatch to the wall, he could pretend. 

“Really?” Pete said, voice cracking. Patrick’s chest heaved as he gasped for breath.

“For so long,” Patrick choked out, and Pete kissed him again. Patrick let his eyes flutter closed, shut the curtains more firmly, and held on. 

\----

Patrick kissed every inch of Pete’s skin to remind himself that it was Pete. He straddled Pete to remind him that he wasn’t tied down. He could do this. He could. 

Pete seemed to be completely absorbed in Patrick’s body. That was the way Patrick wanted him. Patrick didn’t want him to notice Patrick’s weird breathing or pounding heart. He didn’t want Pete to stop. He didn’t want Pete to wonder why.

Part of him wasn’t thinking about anything other than how Pete’s fingers felt, making him pant and groan and gasp open-mouthed against Pete’s neck. He focused on that part, imagined that every time Pete touched him, it built a brick wall between him and Them, reinforced with concrete and steel, and eventually, he’d forget They were even there. 

He cried out as Pete pushed in, whining Pete’s name over and over to remind him, to tell him. 

He would do this a thousand, a million times to make the wall higher.

\-----

Pete didn’t stop the nightmares. Patrick had hoped _so much_ that, like magic, Pete sleeping curled around Patrick would make Patrick sleep like he had before. Would make the shadows leave.

But they were still there, except now Patrick laid shaking in Pete’s arms, trying not to cry too loudly, to terrified to look around. He knew they were fucking there, he knew it, he couldn’t fucking breathe--

Penny licked his face and Patrick gasped, body unfreezing as he reached for her. His hands were shaking far beyond his control and it was hard to breathe. Part of him was begging him to wake up Pete and have him check but Patrick _couldn’t_. Pete couldn’t know, especially not now. Patrick just got him, he wouldn’t be able to handle losing him. 

He just wanted to crawl into Pete’s arms and _forget._

Penny nuzzled her head into Patrick’s chest and he sucked in a deep breath and managed to look up. The room was empty, because of course it was empty. Patrick wished his stupid brain would fucking understand that. 

Penny nuzzled him again and Patrick extricated himself from Pete’s arms. Pete groaned, and Patrick froze as he cracked his eyes open. 

“Hmm?” Pete asked. 

“Penny,” Patrick said. “Go back to sleep.”

Pete took his words at face value and his breathing evened out. Patrick clutched Penny closer and walked out of the room, back down the hall and into the den. As he passed the alarm panel, he froze.

Disarmed. 

He frantically tried to remember if he set it last night. He was really distracted, Pete was so distracting--maybe he hadn’t. But he always had, always, it was just--

The panel flashed _side door open_ and all the blood in Patrick’s body went cold. He froze. He couldn’t do anything, couldn’t figure out what the fuck to do. Penny wriggled in his arms and Patrick choked on a sob. 

He had to go check, obviously he had to go check, but his breath felt painfully stuck in his chest and he was shaking hard. Somehow, he took step after halting, uncoordinated step until he was facing the side door, which was cracked open. 

How? Surely he wasn’t distracted enough to leave his door open. It was fucking impossible. 

He reached out and shut the door, locking it before quickly backing away. He very suddenly felt eyes on the back of his neck and choked on a whimper. Penny whined and licked his face and Patrick gasped for breath before whirling around.

Nobody. Just the dark hallway and the alarm panel. 

Patrick’s heart was pounding.

“C’mon girl,” Patrick said brokenly. “Wanna get brushed?”

He set the alarm and tried not to vomit.

\-----

It was awkward in the studio at first. Patrick could tell they all expected him to take charge, but the mere idea of doing anything remotely close to that made Patrick feel sick, so he took the seat furthest back as he could, metaphorically speaking, leaving Pete and Joe mostly running the show. 

Eventually, they eased into themselves again. As much as they could when Patrick was too terrified to talk to Joe very much and too dazed when Pete was next to him and was generally an anxious fucking mess. He figured he hid it pretty well, all things considered. Joe opened up a little more and Patrick tried really hard to do the same, excepting the curtained off repeat of That Night. They began working again, working for real, and then Andy asked if Pete and Patrick were going to go public. 

Andy and Joe already had, and normally Patrick would balk at putting his personal relationship out there, but he didn’t think he’d be able to hide what happened _and_ this, so he agreed. It was kind of freeing, being able to hold Pete’s hand in public, and being able to be so near to him all the time made Patrick feel a little better. 

A little. 

They dropped My Songs and were working on Death Valley. Unsurprisingly, this was the hardest song for Patrick to do. He choked on _wasted and alone_ every single time until he sighed and asked to record it in private. He had a history of repeated fuckups with an audience, so they all shrugged and complied, leaving Patrick alone in the booth, Butch the only one left. 

“You okay, Patrick?” he asked softly. Patrick nodded. 

“I don’t like this song,” he said honestly. “I don’t like that lyric.”

“I feel you,” Butch said. “Take your time.”

It took a while, but Patrick eventually got it. As well as it was going to be, at least. Andy clapped him on the shoulder as he emerged. 

“You good?” he asked. Patrick shrugged. 

“Didn’t sleep well,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, but it also wasn’t like Patrick had slept well for nine months (and sixteen days and five hours and twenty one minutes.) “Guess I gave myself a mental block.”

“It happens,” Andy said, then grinned. “You didn’t have a meltdown over it. I call it a win.”

Patrick forced a smile. 

“How do you know I didn’t while you were gone?” he asked, somehow managing to play along. 

“I know everything,” Andy said breezily. “Come on, we’re getting dinner.”

Patrick took four breaths in and four breaths out. 

\-----

Pete wasn’t spending the night, he had Bronx this week. It was probably for the best because nearly every night Patrick woke up screaming.

“No, no, no,” he gasped, scrambling to the head of the bed and looking desperately around in fear. “No, please, go away.”

Penny pawed at his arm until he scooped her up, pushing his face into her fur and bursting into tears. He was tired of this. He was so fucking tired of this. They were going on tour and Patrick was terrified. He had no idea how he was going to feel safe, he had no idea what he was going to do. He couldn’t stay awake for three and a half months, but he couldn’t sleep, either, couldn’t close his eyes on tour and _not_ imagine That Moment perfectly every time. 

He sobbed until he physically couldn’t anymore, dawn peeking in around his shades, and Penny stayed where she was. 

\------

One thing Patrick didn’t calculate was how often he’d have to speak to people on the tour. It was a lot. He tried not to let it be obvious that it made him sick, but he didn’t know if it worked. 

It didn’t help that Patrick kept seeing Them every so often in the crew. It wasn’t Them, he knew it wasn’t, he knew it was his stupid mind being an asshole, but he tasted bile every single time. What if it _was_ Them?

He tried hard to never be alone. He was probably annoying but he’d take annoying over panicking on his own, scared to fucking death. 

He couldn’t eat. He didn’t want to go back to the way he was when he lost weight, that wasn’t what he was doing, it was just. Everything made him sick. The constant worrying. The sleepless nights. Not having Penny. Talking. Hallucinating Them. Everything combined to make a pit in his stomach that rejected everything he tried to eat. 

“You shouldn’t be on tour,” Jeanie, his therapist, said quietly when he’d called her. “I understand you had no choice. But if you’re going to do it, you should open up to one person. Let one person help you. Let one person take some anxiety off your shoulders. You feel sick because you don’t have a handle on your PTSD, honey. You’re not going to be able to go on like this. People break, Patrick.”

He couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t break, anyway, he hadn’t so far. He looked at Andy sometimes and thought about telling him--maybe when Joe and Pete went drinking, or partying, neither of which Patrick participated in anymore. 

Maybe he and Andy could watch a movie, and maybe with the lights off in a quiet bus, feeling safe, Patrick could tell him. Maybe Andy would help. 

But that was unrealistic. Andy couldn’t help him. Nobody could help him, Patrick had to help himself. 

But he was just too fucking tired to do it tonight. His heart ached. He wanted to go home, to curl around Penny, to sleep. He thought maybe he could actually sleep for a full night if he was home, even if he had to take NyQuil. 

Joe and Pete and Brendon were being loud and obnoxious, Andy fondly watching them, and Patrick couldn’t take it. Knowing what it would look like, he glanced around to make sure no one was looking before throwing the food he couldn’t force himself to eat away and heading towards the bus. 

Just this once. He’d be alone just this once and it would be okay. He didn’t have energy to worry, anyway. He wanted tea and to watch _Labyrinth,_ to pretend. 

The movie took him away like it always did. Bowie always helped. Patrick forgot about everything, losing himself in the stupid plot of his favorite goddamn movie until someone sat next to him and his heart stopped. 

\-----

Patrick couldn’t sleep. Andy knew about his food issues, which was unsurprising but still uncomfortable. He didn’t want Andy (of all people) to know about that part of him, because Andy was the one most likely to do something about it. 

Not that Patrick was doing that anymore. 

The possibility of Andy finding out the truth, though, was worse than Andy trying to do something about his food issues. 

Patrick tucked his face into Pete’s collarbone, taking a deep breath of Pete’s cologne and the lingering scent of his soap and shaving cream. It did something weird to his chest, made him want to press closer, closer, made him want to crawl into Pete’s arms and refuse to ever come out. 

Not for the first time--not even for the tenth time--Patrick wanted to tell someone. He wanted to tell someone _so bad_ , tell Andy or Pete or his mother, someone that would hold him tight and spend as long as Patrick needed to reassure him. Someone to take his hand and show him that They weren’t in the room before he went to sleep, someone to calm him through the nightmares, someone who would love him even after they found out.

But he couldn’t. 

The mere idea of Pete leaving Patrick sent pure terror straight through his heart. Patrick still heard what They said that night. He still remembered. They made him unloveable, and he could never forget that. 

Pete would leave him if he ever knew, so nobody could _ever_ know. It was Patrick’s secret and it would stay Patrick’s secret until he died. 

One day, Patrick might be able to go a full day not thinking about it. He couldn’t wait for that day. 

He took another deep breath, winding a hand in Pete’s shirt, knuckles brushing tanned, toned abs, and pressed a soft kiss to Pete’s collarbone. He was so fucking lucky to have Pete. He was so fucking lucky to have his friends again, his band again. 

He was nothing without Fall Out Boy, what They said was true. Soul Punk was proof enough of that. If he wasn’t singing Fall Out Boy songs, all he was good for was--

He flinched, breath catching, squeezing his eyes shut. Not true. Not true not true not--

His heart begged him to wake Pete up, to beg Pete for help, for love. Pete loved him. Patrick knew Pete loved him, the residual voices he heard that sounded exactly like Them were _lying._ He knew it, but he wanted to hear it from Pete so badly he could hardly breathe. 

If he was at home, he’d pick up Penny and brush her and hold her close until his heart slowed and his breathing evened out, but he wasn’t at home. He was on tour, on a bus, with nobody. He was fucking afraid and lonely and just wanted one person who would understand.

Just one. 

He wrapped his hand around his wrist, remembering rope and friction burns that didn’t go away for months because he couldn’t stop picking at them. He remembered bruises and biting that hurt too much to be anything but malice.

He remembered eventually realizing he wasn’t getting away, they weren’t going to stop, and surrendering, just sobbing and begging for them to use a condom.

They didn’t do that, either. 

It went on for so long.

Patrick’s breathing hitched and his grip tightened on his wrist. 

He wanted his mother.

\-----

“Can I talk to you?” Joe asked, distracting Patrick from the building panic in his chest as Pete drove away. He was coming back. He was just getting Bronx and he was _coming back._

“Um,” Patrick said, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

He followed Joe onto his and Andy’s bus, sitting next to him on the couch after only a moment of hesitation. He had no idea what Joe was going to say. He wracked his brain--had he said anything, anything at all that was even slightly bad? He didn’t think he did, but he could be wrong, he often was. It wouldn’t surprise him. All Patrick did was fuck up and ruin things and--

“I’m sorry,” Joe said, and Patrick’s brain screeched to a halt. He blinked, staring at Joe in confusion, but before he could ask, Joe charged on. “I’m sorry for the shit I said before the hiatus. And I know, you probably forgive me, but I want you to know how sorry I am. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair for you to take all the blame for our fights when I was just as nasty.”

“You weren’t,” Patrick said softly, but he meant _I deserved it._

“I was,” Joe insisted. “I was. I could have handled things maturely but instead I provoked you. And I said awful shit. You were my best friend, Patrick. You still are. I still want you to be.”

Patrick swallowed past tears, past pleas he wanted to make for Joe to say that again, say it louder, scream it so that for once, the fucking demon on Patrick’s shoulder would be drowned out. 

He couldn’t say a word, though, could hardly breathe, so he just wrapped shaking arms around Joe’s middle. Joe released his breath in a harsh sigh and hugged Patrick back, tight.

“I miss you so much,” Joe said.

“I miss you, too,” Patrick choked out. “I miss you so much, Joe, I’m so sorry--”

“We both are,” Joe said, a little desperately. “We both are. Let’s start over, let’s forget the whole thing. Please.”

“Please,” Patrick whispered, and Joe squeezed him tighter. He took a deep breath, but whatever he was about to say was derailed as Andy walked onto the bus, hands clenched into fists at his sides, sobbing. 

“Babe?” Joe asked. “Are you okay?”

“I need to talk to Patrick,” Andy said, and nausea hit Patrick like a freight train.

\-----

“No,” Patrick whimpered. He wasn’t proud of it. They laughed, making him flinch, the rope burning his wrists. He didn’t bother fighting. It didn’t work. 

One was setting up a camera and Patrick felt like vomiting. The other had his hand high on Patrick’s inner thigh, holding him down with far too much ease, sending dark bruising across Patrick’s skin. His thumb dug painfully into a brutal bite mark right underneath his hip, and Patrick whimpered again. 

“Please,” Patrick begged. “Please.”

The one holding him down laughed, leaning forward and dragging his tongue down the side of Patrick’s neck. 

“Are you begging us to stop?” he taunted. “Or to use a condom? Because the answer was no both times. Did you think we’d change our minds?”

“You like it,” the other added. “At least, you liked it the other night. Remember?”

Patrick did. He remembered it. And regretted it.

The one holding him down grabbed his other thigh, forcing Patrick’s legs apart until his hips screamed in pain. 

“Don’t start yet,” the one filming admonished. “I haven’t finished.”

“Real quick,” the other said. “I’ll wait to fuck him. I just want to--”

He pushed four fingers into Patrick before Patrick even realized what was happening, laughing lowly as Patrick yelped and tensed up. 

“You want to make him come again?” the one filming asked. “What’s the point?”

“It’s so he has fun,” the other cracked, curling his fingers until Patrick gasped against his will. “And remembers me fondly, right?”

“Stop,” Patrick begged. “Please, stop, I’ll do whatever you want.”

The other shushed him. 

“I’m gonna make you come,” he said, all faux sweet. “I’m gonna make you come and scream, and then I’ll fuck you and then he’ll fuck you and then we’ll be all done. Right?”

Patrick sobbed, hating how he was getting hard, hating how good it felt, hating himself. 

“Besides,” the guy said, continuing to finger Patrick against his will. “Because you came for us, it means you liked this. That means you consented. Why’d you come if you didn’t say yes?”

“Stop,” Patrick begged. 

“Shut up,” the one filming said. “Or I can gag you with my cock again.”

Patrick gasped and moaned, tears spilling out of his eyes and down his cheeks, blurring his vision further. The one on top of him laughed, biting at Patrick’s neck, too hard, too rough. Patrick hated it, he hated it, he hated them, he hated himself, he just wanted it to _stop--_

Patrick screamed, fighting hard at whoever was touching him, holding him. No, no no he was not allowing this to happen again, he _wasn’t._ He hit, kicked, fought with everything in him, tears running down his face, before a voice registered in his head, clicking a switch that shut his panic off. 

“Trick,” Pete said desperately. “Patrick, Trick, it’s okay. It’s okay, wake up, it’s me. I’m here. It’s okay, it was just a bad dream. Wake up, babe.”

Patrick gasped for breath, chest heaving, stilling on the bed. His surroundings slowly came into focus--the bed, the TV, the mirror; a hotel room.

Oh. A hotel room. A hotel room with _Pete,_ his _boyfriend_ , because he was on the road with his _band_ and it was not Then. They were not here. It was just a dream. Just a dream. 

“Trick,” Pete breathed, and Patrick choked on tears. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh,” Pete soothed. “It’s okay, it must have been a terrible dream. It’s okay. Come here.”

Patrick struggled to breathe as Pete pulled him close, trembling and clinging. Pete was whispering in his ear, nonsense that washed over Patrick, and Patrick just held on.

\----

Patrick woke up late, later than usual, even for him. His body ached and his head throbbed, but neither of those things distracted him from Pete, who was acting weird. 

He was still in bed with Patrick, which was even more unusual than Patrick sleeping late, thumb tracing patterns across the jut of Patrick’s hip, where his pajama pants rode down and his (Pete’s) sleep shirt rode up. His nose was tucked behind Patrick’s ear and he was pressed up along the full length of Patrick’s body.

None of those things would be unusual if it wasn’t nearly one in the afternoon. Pete never slept late, always up earlier than Patrick by a long shot, and he was never this still and quiet, either, just holding Patrick like Patrick never quite knew how to ask for. 

“Pete?” he asked, voice hoarse, and Pete’s breathing hitched. Patrick frowned tiredly, but Pete didn’t give him a chance to investigate. 

“Hi, babe,” he said. “I love you.”

Pete sounded wrecked and Patrick frowned again. 

“What’s wrong, Pete?” he asked, and Pete tightened his arms around Patrick. “Pete.”

“Nothing,” Pete said, a very obvious lie. “I had a really bad dream.”

“I didn’t wake up,” Patrick realized. “I’m sorry, babe.”

“You don’t need to be,” Pete said. “You had your own nightmare. I’ve never seen you like that.”

“I did?” Patrick asked. “I don’t remember it.”

That was a lie, too. He remembered every second. It wasn’t the first time he’d revisited That Moment that vividly.

Pete kissed the back of Patrick’s neck and squeezed him. 

“I just wanted to stay close to you,” Pete said. “We leave pretty soon. We have an acoustic show we didn’t know about so we’re going to have to spend the ride working on it.”

Alarm bells went off in Patrick’s head. Acoustic show? He absolutely did not know about an acoustic show, and while their manager was complete shit, he usually didn’t drop the ball like that. A sick sort of feeling started up in his stomach like a warning--a warning about what, Patrick wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t anything good.

He didn’t think Andy would stab him in the back, but he was never certain about anything anymore. It was possible. After what happened, anything was possible.

“What song?” Patrick asked, instead of arguing to find out the truth. He was trying really hard to take this at face value. He was _trying._

“Save Rock and Roll,” Pete said. “We thought it would be the easiest. You can vote for something else if you want.”

“Save Rock and Roll is fine,” Patrick said, tangling his fingers with Pete’s and shutting his eyes for a moment. Pete drew him closer and all Patrick wanted to do was fall back asleep clinging to Pete instead of getting up and spending another day trying to ignore the stopwatch in his head (1 year, two months, six days--)

But he couldn’t. He had to be an adult, had to be the lead singer, had to be sweet and kind and quiet when he just wanted to scream and cry and fight and explode over how unfair this was. About how he didn’t deserve it, no matter what those fucking voices told him. About how he’d give anything to forget about it, forget it ever happened. 

It wasn’t just _it_ , either, although _it_ was the biggest part. It was the other stuff, too, like how he hurt too bad to get out of the bed They raped him on, how he had to stay there for hours, how he bled for a month until he forced himself to go to the doctor, the absolutely agonizing six month wait between HIV tests, the way he had to _finish the tour_ and pretend he was okay as They were handling _his instruments_ for _two fucking months._

He wanted to forget it all, it wasn’t _fair_ , hadn’t he suffered enough?

“I love you,” Pete whispered again, but Patrick knew he wouldn’t if he knew the truth.

\-----

Patrick wasn’t a fucking idiot. 

He was exhausted, that was true, exhausted and shaky and sick of pretending and depressed, but he wasn’t a fucking idiot. It only took one look at Joe’s face, Pete’s body language, and the realization that he was the only one with an instrument out to realize they were going to confront him about something.

Andy looked awful and Patrick would check in with him if he wasn’t a) positive he’d opened his damn mouth about something and thus b) was ready to kick his teeth in, even though that was a fight Patrick was most assuredly not going to win. 

Patrick would have preferred it if Andy kept his goddamn mouth shut, but if he was going to talk, the very last thing Patrick wanted anyone else to know about was that damn video and what had happened on it. He honestly hoped that they were going to talk about the food. He’d talk about that. He’d admit to it all as long as that was all they knew. 

“I’m not an idiot,” he said, feeling sick. “I know we don’t have an acoustic show. So what did you want to talk to me about?”

Nobody answered, not a single fucking one of them owned up, so Patrick turned his fury towards Andy.

“Andy,” he said, hoping he sounded as cold as he felt. “What have you told them?”

He didn’t believe Andy when he said _nothing_ , this was not _nothing_ , this was a clear confrontation, but all of his anger was derailed when Pete spoke.

“Babe,” he said, and Patrick wanted to curl up next to him and hide from all of this forever. His grip tightened on his favorite guitar. “Your nightmare. Last night.”

“Yes,” Patrick said, proud of how he sounded mostly composed when he was really quickly falling apart. “What about it?”

All Patrick had to hear was _flashdrive_ and every single piece of his heart shattered in his chest, cutting into his lungs and stomach. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to fall to his knees, apologize to Pete, beg him not to leave. 

He’d do anything if Pete let this go. He’d go back. He’d go back and go through it again if Pete just never found out. 

He was panicking, he knew he was, and he made his escape with no resistance from any of them, which just made him sicker. He thought. He really, really thought he was safe, he had things under control, that his band would stay together this time. He thought. 

He thought it was over, he thought they wouldn’t hurt him anymore, that except for the endless memories, they couldn’t ruin his life, but he was wrong. He was wrong and it was unfair, so unfair.

He choked on a sob, sinking to the sofa bed he and Pete used, chest hurting. Everything hurting. He had no idea what to do. For almost a year, he had everything back. He had his band, his best friends, he had music, he had Pete. He had Pete the way he’d always wanted Pete, and it was just a cruel joke. It was taunting, _look what you had_ , and Patrick didn’t think he could handle losing it all. He really didn’t. 

He wanted to break down in tears, wanted to plead with them to not leave. They would leave, of course they would, because who wanted to be in a band with someone who had a sex tape? It didn’t matter that Patrick didn’t--that he never asked for it, that he didn’t want it or say yes, it didn’t matter because he was on video getting fucked by two guys. 

Patrick had seen the video. He didn’t want to, but he had. His very last show, they hugged him, making his skin crawl and making him panic, and they slid a flashdrive into his pocket. 

Patrick should have just killed himself then. 

The bus stopped and Patrick swallowed hard. He had no idea if they’d finish the tour or not but he did know he had to try and talk to Pete. Even though it wouldn’t work, even though Patrick’s heart would break all over again, he had to try and apologize. 

Pete took his hand when he extended it, even drew him into a hug, and Patrick had to fight to not break down right there. He didn’t mean to cling but he couldn’t help it. 

“I’m sorry,” Pete whispered, beating Patrick to it. “Trick, I’m so sorry, fuck. I can’t even fucking imagine how that felt, I can’t fucking--I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I’m sorry we were fighting, I’m so fucking sorry that you had no one. I’m sorry that it happened. I would give anything to make it not true.”

Patrick couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, just clung to Pete with everything he had in him. Pete held him back just as tight, like maybe he wasn’t going to leave. Patrick couldn’t keep his hopes down, wanted Pete to stay so bad.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” Patrick mumbled before he could help himself. “Please don’t leave me.”

“I’d never,” Pete said, and Patrick choked back tears.

\----

“Pete,” Patrick whispered, voice breaking in the darkness, eyes squeezed shut. The bus rumbled on, making it clear his ridiculous terror was completely unfounded, but it didn’t convince him. Pete’s arm was slung over him and he was breathing softly against Patrick’s neck. 

Patrick didn’t want to wake Pete up, but--Andy found a flashdrive and so did Pete and that meant They were _here_ , They could be here, for real this time, and Patrick felt the weight of the gaze he was sure was his imagination. He was too frightened to open his eyes and check, too scared. He felt like throwing up. 

“Pete,” he whispered again, pleading even though he didn’t want to. He knew if Pete woke and checked for him, he’d feel alright. He knew it. Just this once, Patrick wouldn’t ever do it again, he swore. “Pete, please.”

“What’s wrong, babe?” Pete mumbled, drawing Patrick closer. Patrick fought back a desperate sob.

“Please,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, please, please.”

“What, babe?” Pete asked. “It’s okay, I’ll do anything you want. Tell me.”

“Please make sure they’re not here,” Patrick begged, voice choked and full of tears. “Please. I’m sorry, please--”

Pete hushed him and drew him closer. 

“They’re not here,” he promised. “I’ll check. It’s okay.”

Patrick gasped for breath and Pete squeezed him. He wanted to die. Or just disappear. 

Pete got off the sofa bed and held out a hand to Patrick, who took it after a moment of hesitation. Pete helped Patrick to his feet and kissed him softly. 

“Come on,” he said. “Walk with me.”

Patrick made his feet move, step by halting step, hand in Pete’s. He balked at the dark front room, and Pete didn’t hesitate, just flipped on the light and pulled him close. 

“Safe,” he said. “I’ll check the bunks and bathroom, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick choked. 

“You don’t need to be,” Pete whispered. “I’d die for you, Trick.”

Patrick bit back a sob. 

The checks of both proved Patrick was safe, and, as Pete pulled him close, tucking Patrick’s head under his chin and wrapping his arms tight around him, Patrick thought that maybe, just maybe, he’d sleep.

\-----

Taking care of Joe and Andy when they slowly died with the flu actually made Patrick feel a little normal again. Andy, for all his calm demeanor, was a complete and utter bitch when he was sick. It was clear he was totally miserable, and Patrick was usually the only one able to cope with that, so Pete spent a lot of time bringing tea and water and Patrick spent a lot of time being a human pillow for them both. 

Obviously, that sent the death flu after Patrick, too. 

Patrick fucking hated it. He never liked being sick (who liked being sick?) but this was worse, so much worse. He was so dizzy, which kicked up his anxiety, which just made the dizziness worse. He couldn’t sleep because the dizziness brought him back to That Moment every single time. Thankfully, Pete was too sick to ask questions. 

Andy had gently touched him once while he was drifting and Patrick hit him without thinking about it. He tried to apologize but Andy just hopped into bed and pulled him close, urging him to sleep. 

Patrick felt guilty for sleeping so well when Andy was there. He never slept this well with Pete. It made him sick. Well. More sick.

He did, though. Sleep well, that was. For the first time in weeks.

\-----

Patrick was an anxious mess by the time tour ended. He had no idea what it would be like going back to normal life now that Pete knew. He had no idea if, once Pete was free of the rigor of touring, he would realize he didn’t actually want to deal with Patrick’s insanity for the rest of forever. 

He didn’t know what Pete expected of him. He didn’t know what Pete thought he would see. He did know that his mom was at his house and had Penny waiting for him. His baby was waiting for him and Patrick would get to cuddle her and it made him feel better already.

He didn’t care what anyone thought. 

Pete wrapped his arms around Patrick as Patrick finished zipping up his last duffle bag. Patrick turned his head and kissed him and Pete sighed against his mouth. 

“World’s worst father,” he said.

“Extremely doubtful,” Patrick replied. “What’s up?”

“Bronx has back to school night literally tonight,” Pete said. “And he found out I’ll be home in time.”

“And you’re exhausted?” Patrick asked. Pete shook his head even though Patrick was pretty sure it was a lie.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Pete said unhappily. Patrick turned in Pete’s arms to kiss him properly, until Pete sighed into Patrick’s mouth.

“My mom’s home,” Patrick whispered. “Go to Bronx’s school thing. It’s okay.”

Pete kissed him again, gently. 

“Does she know?” Pete asked, and Patrick couldn’t help how tense he got immediately. Pete buried his face into Patrick’s neck. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Patrick said haltingly. “No, she doesn’t. Please don’t--don’t tell her.”

“I would never,” Pete said, looking back up at him. “I promise. Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Patrick said, because he was pretty sure it was true. The amount of relief he felt just imagining crawling into his own bed with Penny was staggering. 

“I love you,” Pete said, kissing down Patrick’s neck. “So much, Trick.”

“I love you, too,” Patrick replied softly. 

\-----

Normally, Patrick would stress about the handling of his guitars until they were safely back at home, but he hardly had energy to spare for that. He left his duffle bags in his car, too, just practically raced to get inside. 

“Hi, mom,” he miraculously called first, before Penny came tearing around the corner. “Penny! Princess! Hi!”

He scooped Penny up and cradled her to his chest, kissing her head and taking a deep breath. He couldn’t explain it, but every time he held Penny, waves of calm crashed over him. He never wanted to put her down; he missed her so much. It was probably unhealthy, no matter how happy Jeanie was that Penny calmed him down. 

“Hi, Momma,” Patrick said again, and hugged her as she walked up to him. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, sweetheart,” his mom said. She grinned fondly at him and brushed his hair away from his face, like he was nine instead of twenty nine. “You look so exhausted. I’ll go back to the hotel. Breakfast tomorrow?”

“I’d love that,” Patrick said honestly. His mom smiled again. 

“Don’t think I won’t grill you about Pete,” she said playfully. “Or tell you that I saw this coming years ago.”

“I expect nothing else,” Patrick said. “Love you, mom.”

“Love you, sweetie,” his mom said. 

Patrick forced himself to wait until he saw his mom back out of the driveway before quickly locking the door and setting the alarm. The panel didn’t detect motion, so he was alone. He exhaled hard. 

“You have no idea how much I missed you,” Patrick whispered. Penny licked his face. “I really needed you. Everyone knows now. I don’t know what to do. I’m so tired.”

Penny licked him again and Patrick’s breathing hitched as he held her a little tighter. He glanced at the clock--eight PM. He’d been touring. It was not too early to go to bed. 

“C’mere, girl,” Patrick said, petting her gently. He’d take a NyQuil and he’d cuddle Penny and when he woke up, things would be better.

When he woke up, the world would come around. 

\-----

Patrick’s hands were tied. He pulled, but it was useless, rope scraping his skin and leaving friction burns. He couldn’t get free, it was hard to breathe. They dragged their nails down his side, sending burning heat after it, and he choked on a sob and shook his head. 

They laughed, and Patrick turned his head when he felt them smear wetness across his lips. He knew what they wanted but this time he wouldn’t let them make him do it. 

They laughed again and Patrick tried to struggle as he felt Them grab his hips. He fought despite the rope on his wrists and his fear and his tears, but it didn’t matter, They held him down and it didn’t--

Penny barked and Patrick choked on air, falling out of bed as he tried to get away, get away from Them, get--

Penny barked again, jumping off the bed and pawing at Patrick’s arm on the ground as he laid at an awkward angle, chest heaving. The NyQuil was still making his eyelids heavy, making him drowsy, but his heart was racing painfully in his chest. He tried to breathe, reaching out shakily and pulling his Penny close. 

“Hi, Princess,” Patrick said, and his voice cracked on tears. “Hi, I’m sorry, did I scare you?”

Penny licked his face. 

“What would I do without you?” he mumbled. He pet her gently, pulling her to his chest. “Want a treat? Wanna get brushed?”

His voice cracked again as he finished, and this time, he couldn’t stop the tears. They ripped themselves out of his chest painfully and Patrick gave up. He cried until his chest hurt and his asthma kicked in, and by the time he thought he was cried out, he knew he needed his inhaler. 

He picked himself up off the floor, wheezing, and Penny barked in distress. He cradled her close and dug through the one bag he’d brought inside--his backpack. He shook the inhaler and took it, feeling his chest loosen up, though it was still sore like he’d been coughing for weeks. He sighed shakily, shoulders slumping, and kissed Penny’s head.

“What do I do?” he whispered. “Penny, what do I do?”

Penny licked him and Patrick took a deep breath. He knew enough--had experienced enough--to know that falling back asleep right away would be a terrible idea, even though he was exhausted. He adjusted Penny in his arms and opened his bedroom door, heading down the hall towards the den. He’d watch something dumb, just until his heart beat normally again and the painful tension across his shoulders lessened. 

He halted down the hall from the den, trembling. The den was not dark like he’d expected. A light was on, and so was the TV. The alarm panel said it was armed and also that it was just past midnight. 

Patrick’s throat went dry. He held Penny a little tighter and forced himself to walk, step by step, until he could see the whole den. 

A movie was playing, the Avengers it looked like, and Pete was on the couch. Patrick’s breathing caught. Pete must have heard him because he turned to look, smiling softly. 

“Hey,” he said. “You were asleep and I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh,” Patrick said. His voice was hoarse. “Shouldn’t you be with Bronx?”

“Ashlee asked to take him for a family thing,” Pete said. “You okay, babe?”

Pete was looking at him carefully. Patrick bet his eyes were swollen and his face was blotchy.

“Yeah,” Patrick said. He swallowed. “Are you tired yet?”

Pete didn’t hesitate, just turned the TV off and stood. 

“Very,” he said, even though Patrick knew it was a lie, and wrapped an arm around Patrick. 

Patrick took a deep breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smalltalktorture.tumblr.com
> 
> rainn: 1-800-656-4673

**Author's Note:**

> smalltalktorture.tumblr.com, if you ever wanna talk. i'll always listen.
> 
> rainn: 1-800-656-4673


End file.
